Truae
by Kyn
Summary: Mahi. Trua. Curiato. Three celestial beings sent to prepare the world. They are Azeroth's salvation. And the mortal races have so many enemies. A broad fic, encompassing many Warcraft heroes and several OCs. Sequel to MahiMahi.
1. Time Has Passed

Yayyyy! Welcome to Downtown Kyn's brain, where you will be treated to her newest story! Unless, of course, you hate her writing, in which case you will be subjected to her story! Yayy! Erm... right... well... where was I? Oh yes!

Truae is the second in a (hopefully) three story trilogy. It picks up soon after the events in MahiMahi, but it _can_ be read as a stand alone fic. The only caution I give to readers is that they remember that events happened before this story. There are reasons that some characters act the way they do. There are some Originial Characters who have been around for a long time. There are some Canon Characters who have evolved and changed. However, I should be able to present them in sucha way that they are introduced gently. May the force be with you!

* * *

**_Time Has Passed_**

* * *

My name is Archimonde. 

Wait- that's not right. Let me try again.

…

My name is Ember. _I_ am Ember.

… I'm not exactly certain who Ember is. After all, "Ember" is just a name. What I really am, what I am deep inside, is Archimonde. If I'm nothing other than him, doesn't that make me Archimonde, too? What am I, if not him? Am I nothing more than the self-destructive tendencies of an arch-demon? Maybe I am only him. Maybe what you see is just the mask he wears, or some elaborate game. Maybe my whole sense of self-identity is something he has invented. Maybe I don't really exist. Maybe I'm all that's left of his soul.

Maybe I'm just a figment of my own imagination.

"**_There is nothing I can do for this child. You can see her taint, can't you? There is nothing in this mortal shell but a demon. If there ever was a little girl within that body, it has long since dispersed."_**

Unless, maybe, there is a part of me that is… _not_ Archimonde? Maybe that part is Nightelfin. Maybe it is something more. But what does it matter? I know, for certain, that I would not exist if Archimonde had not needed a host. I think I only exist because he forced me to. I think I have no soul. I think I was never intended to live.

And yet, my name is not Archimonde. Not yet… My name _is_ Ember. I may have nothing else- no true existence, no true soul, no true life, but I have a name. I will not give it up. Ember. Ember Stormrage. And Archimonde will not take that name from me- even if I _am_ Archimonde. It is the one point in my world that I am certain of. It is the one thing I know to be true. I am Ember.

_I am Ember._

Although…I don't know who Ember is. But I do know who Archimonde is. I shut him out. I force out his voice, and his mind. I can trust nothing but the instincts of my mortal shell, and so I give in to them. I become one with them, and I let them rule me. They are Ember, too. They know how to the difference between what I want and what Archimonde wants. I trust them. I obey them. I protect them from him with utmost jealousy. They are simple-primal-basic. They're angry, and feral, and destructive.

But they're not _his._

"**_Since Ember's been old enough to crawl, occasionally something will happen that upsets her. She- she goes into a sort of fury, immediately attacking whomever is closest to her." _**

And for the first time in my entire life, someone else saw _me_. He saw my instincts. He saw the whims of my mortal shell. He saw my anger, and my feral fury, and my destructive tendencies, and he saw _me_. And even though he didn't know who Ember was, he could tell what she needed. He didn't appeal to my mind, or my soul- both of which belong to Archimonde. Instead, he let my instincts run mad. And he taught my instincts, and made them calm. He curbed my anger, and my violence, and my destruction, and turned them into primitive affection and childish roughhousing. He appealed to the last part of me that was free from the demon, and he strengthened that part, and soothed it.

"**_Have you been a good girl today?" he inquired playfully. She drew back an inch and nodded, pleased with herself. "Oh really? No drowned puppies, no Naga missing scales, no elves with their hair pulled out? You haven't set the ship on fire, have you?"_**

For the first time in all my life, someone managed to help me. Someone gave me a sliver of life and freedom to hold on to. Someone began to save me. Ember Stormrage. That's who I am. My parents are Tyrande and Malfurion. My twin brother is Fenuine. My… my uncle…

He could have saved me. He was the only one who could have saved me. But now I'm alone. I'm lonely, I think. I can't really tell. I _should_ be lonely. All I'm certain of is that I'm angry. I'm angry. I'm so angry. I hate Furion. I hate him with everything in me. He isn't my father. He's Fenuine's. I'm the bastard daughter of evil. And he drove away the one person who could have saved me. Who could have found something in me to save.

"**_No," Ember repeated louder. "Not mine."_**

**_Furion recoiled as if struck, and Tyrande's jaw dropped. Illidan flinched. "Ember, of course he's your father, he-"_**

"**_Not mine!" she insisted vehemently. "Fenuine's!"_**

And with what I have of a mind, I know Archimonde used me. I was docile. I didn't rage, because I was so happy to see my mommy, and my brother. I didn't want to hurt them. I was stupid. And Archimonde used me. He knew exactly what to say. He knew exactly what to do. And he knew exactly how to use me. I can't trust anything but my instincts. I can't trust my happiness, or my sadness, or my loneliness, or my logic. I can't even trust my love. I love my uncle. I needed him. I knew he could help me. And Archimonde played on that, strengthened that bond, and then made me do the one thing that could turn Furion against Illidan.

"**_Ember- what are you talking about? Ember, Fenuine's father is your father!" Tyrande said alarmed. Ember gave a vigorous shake of her head. The priestess stared in exasperation and asked, "Then who is?"_**

**_Immediately, Ember turned and looked at Illidan. Silence reigned as the demonhunter backed up a step, dismay written across his face._**

I did it. It's my fault. I look like my uncle. I have his face, and his eyes, and the same color hair. And I needed him. And Archimonde used that. And because of him- because of me- because of Furion's worry- I lost the one thing that could save me.

"**_Deny that you wish she was yours!" Illidan reeled backwards, and gaped at his brother. "That's all you do, brother! You take whatever pleases you, regardless of right and wrong! Regardless of how others suffer! Deny that you envy my relationship with sweet Tyrande. Deny that you envy the existence of my children! Deny your jealousy! Deny that you have dwelled a thousand times on the concept that Ember might have been yours! Deny you have felt that she _should_ have been yours!"_**

And I hate Furion. Because with his love and his protection, he damned me. He took away the one person who ever helped me figure out who I am. I hate him. I hate him. I am Ember. I'm sure of it. But I need to find the one person who can tell me who she is. Furion loves me… And Archimonde uses that the same way he used my love. To cage me. To break me. And I cannot let him. I will rage. I will hurt anyone- Furion, my mother- even Fenuine. I will do anything to hold onto my name. Next time I will not let him win.

I have to find Illidan. Of that, I'm certain.

* * *

Moonglade

Ember…

Ember and Fenuine were nestled against one another. There was such a stark contrast between his two children. Ember's velvety, dark violet hair showed vividly against Fenuine's bright green. Fenuine had his thumb in his mouth. Ember had a look of serene contentment upon her face. It was a look she never had while awake.

Furion wondered what the little girl could be dreaming about that could make her so peaceful. After a moment, he reached forward and gently brushed her hair from her brow.

Ember's face contracted, and she squirmed lightly under his touch. He reflexively drew his hand back, and his mouth tugged down at the corners. Ember… For a long time, he merely sat their there in silence. Leaves whispered outside the bedroom window. Trees creaked, and shifted. A gentle wind roused up some leaves, and caused them to skitter over the outside walls like the legs of an insect. The breeze made light piping noises as it danced over his wooden abode.

The forest was trying to tell him something. He closed his eyes, and then sighed. After a moment, healing, natural energies coursed out from his being. They streamed into the little girl, trying to draw out her spirit from the darkness that had captured it. Soothing, healing, calling her back from-

Ember screamed and sat bolt upright. Before Furion could do a thing, she slapped him full across the face, and her fingers raked open his cheek. Furion grunted and jerked back in surprise, releasing the little girl. Fenuine jumped, his eyes opening, and he looked at his twin in alarm. Ember's eyes focused and she blinked, confused. Her reaction to Furion's druidic energies had been purely subconscious. Now that she was completely awake, she didn't remember what exactly had caused her to lash out at him

Furion sighed and felt his bloodied cheek. After a moment, he looked back at Ember. His eyes widened, and he felt himself fighting back revulsion.

Ember was licking his blood from her fingertips.

After a long, long pause, he breathed in slowly. Then he leaned over and gently kissed her on the forehead. Her expression distorted, and she growled, but he did not stop, and she did not lash out again. There had to be some way to help her… _Some way_.

Ember…

* * *

Dustwallow Marsh

The Lady Jaina Proudmoore grunted. It was an undignified sound, but then the Lady Proudmoore was in a position where undignified sounds were permissible. At the time of this inelegant grunt, she was engaging in melee combat with a black dragonspawn. Her noise was forgivable on the basis that she had just used her staff to deflect the dragonspawn's glaive.

Jaina grinned triumphantly as she held her own against the glaive. As soon as the dragonspawn drew the weapon back for another attack, the sorceress moved. She twisted, whipping a foot into the air and kicking the scaly beast directly in the jaw.

She felt the primal call of the earth from deep beneath her feet. It was wise and ancient, and filled with old power and strength. Its spirit whispered, and she listened. Its energy flowed, and she moved. The Lady Proudmoore resisted every last one of her controlling sorceress instincts, and allowed the earth to simply stream through her. It moved through her planted leg, coursed through her body, and then tore down the length of her kick. The energy of the earth exploded from her being as her foot connected with the dragonspawn's jaw. It slashed through the air in a tumultuous rumble of bronze energy, and for a moment, it seemed as if an earthquake had passed through the area. The dragonspawn flew backwards and collided with a tree. It sank to the ground, stunned by the force of the blow.

Jaina beamed.

Cairne nodded.

Thrall applauded.

Vol'jin just laughed his arse off. It would have been less funny if Jaina weren't a mere five-feet two-inches in height, or if she had been a warrior rather than a sorceress.

The four leaders had taken to assembling frequently. Although Jaina was the only official " Alliance" member of the troupe, it did not seem to set her that far away from her fellows. If anything, she seemed more at home in their company than in the company of human bureaucrats. Thrall and Jaina had originally met on occasion to discuss serious issues regarding the uneasy truce between their peoples. However, this had proven to be too infrequent. Scuffles between the humans and the orcs went on daily, and lack of communication only served to broaden the gap between the two races, leaving their respective leaders with a sense of hopelessness and isolation.

Now the four met to remind themselves what they were struggling for. They met to remind themselves that peace and friendship between the races were possible. They met to speak about conflicts and problems. They met to talk. At times, they broke out into full-blown philosophical debates.

The group also met for the purpose of cultural exchange. They met in order to understand one another, and in order to broaden their own horizons. Jaina and Vol'jin were currently teaching Thrall the nuances of naval warfare. Cairne and Thrall were teaching Jaina shamanism. The lessons and the contact had done wonders for all of them.

A smile worked its way over Cairne Bloodhoof's muzzle, and he nodded his great shaggy head. Jaina had come a long way since her lessons had first begun. She had learned to allow energy to flow through her, rather than taking energy and molding it to her whims. She had learned to listen to the earth- to be patient and empathetic. Her training was only in its infant stages, of course, but it was the principle and discipline of the thing that mattered. Jaina had stunned the dragonspawn with a small scale shockwave. It was something that Cairne himself had taught her to do, and he was most proud of her.

Jaina was also proud of Jaina. Her eyes beamed cyan, and she clutched her staff tightly. In the time that Thrall and Cairne had been teaching her, she had been forced to spend an extraordinary amount of time outside. She had been forced to put away her books. She had been forced to stand in the sun and actually _fight_. Physical discipline was part of being a shaman; one could not have spiritual discipline without physical discipline, and vise versa.

She gripped her staff and concentrated, ignoring the dragonspawn as it stood. Sorceress energies mixed with shamanistic. The rigid structures of magic flowed into the wild freedom of the elements. An explosion of water burst out from the mage's hands, and it crackled with a powerful blue beam of electricity.

Before these meetings, Jaina's hair had begun to darken to a bronze color. Now it was the brilliant color of wheat. Her eyes no longer had dark circles under them, and her skin was no longer so pale. She had not noticed how the improvement in her appearance, but the people around her had. Her Horde friends had. They noticed how the development of muscles beneath her slender frame had given her a sense of pride. They noticed how the work and meditation brought life and vigor back to her face. They noticed that she now lacked any sense of helplessness or fear when fighting alone. They even noticed how her sorcery was improving, and how her teleportation spells were no longer wearying her at the end of the day.

The lady stepped forward to meet the dragonspawn's charge, countering its glaive with her staff even though her petite body cried out in strain. She was not used to pushing herself athletically, but she did so anyway. It was part of the shamanism. It was part of discipline. It was part of understanding.

Ice erupted from her staff, ripping through the dragonspawn. Finally the creature could take no more. It turned and fled, with lightning bolts hurrying it along.

Vol'jin noted that Thrall had benefited as well, but it was a more subtle change. Where Jaina's changes were obviously and physically visible, Thrall's alterations were more internal. He smiled more often; he laughed more often. There was a renewed strength to him. Until these lessons had started, Thrall had begun sounding like a tired old king, sick of war but helpless to prevent it. Now he moved with energy and composure, as if every last detail was important. The conflict did not weary him, and did not dull his spirit. Thrall seemed like Thrall again- like the naïve and revolutionary new Warchief who spirited his people away from humans and demons alike.

Jaina turned back to them with a smile on her face. As she returned to them, Thrall laughed.

"Well, well. I'm impressed , Miss Proudmoore. You've proved me wrong. You _do_ have more coordination than a newborn!"

The woman grinned and gave him a shove – and something remarkable happened. Somehow, she pushed him _hard_ Hard enough, in fact, that Thrall fell over and landed on his rump in the swamp. The orc blinked, flabbergasted, and gaped at her like a fish out of water.

Vol'jin almost joined him in the muck, he was laughing so hard.

"What?" Jaina asked. "Did you think the shockwave only worked against dragonspawn?"

The Warchief blinked, and then threw back his head and laughed.

* * *

Moonglade

Furion took Ember out as often as he could, and endeavored to spend time with her on a regular basis. It would be cruel to keep her locked securely within their home, and the girl was an extremely restless creature. Besides, he had known Fenuine since the children were born. He hardly knew Ember. The little girl tolerated their excursions, although she occasionally became aggressive whenever Furion forbade her from doing something. She also had a tendency to kill, skin and barbecue squirrels whenever he turned his back.

The archdruid grunted in frustration, and sat down upon the stump of a small tree to observe as Ember chased after some birds. In any other child, her behavior would be harmless. However, Ember's intentions were far from innocent. Whenever she caught an animal, it generally died in some horrible and gruesome fashion.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his face, his whole being straining for some sign from the natural world… some clue as to how to reach his daughter. Abruptly, Ember's laughter ceased. Furion blinked open his eyes, and then stiffened. Standing before Ember was a stag Hippogriff.

Fyrak stood six feet tall at the shoulder. In his eyes there was a feral cunning. The male's coat was almost entirely black, with deep, dark violet visible in its velvety depths. His curling antlers ended in twelve vicious points, and his beak was curved like a meat hook. Each of his fingers was roughly the same thickness as Ember's arm. He was one of the oldest and most powerful hippogriffs alive. He lived in Moonglade, and occasionally served as the companion of Silva Fil'naveth, the Darnassus Flight Master.

Ember stood very still. The anxious druid could not help but notice that she was staring the beast directly in the eyes- a very threatening and domineering thing to do. Ember lifted her hands to the beast's face. She laced them through the velvety black feathers, and leaned her cheek against the massive bird's forehead. The hippogriff merely clicked his beak. She did not notice Furion shouting for her to get back. She did not hear his footfalls. She only felt the soft feathers, and the wild and unpredictable nature of the predatory beast.

After a long, long moment, she felt Malfurion's hand on her shoulder. He did not interrupt or pull her away. He did not react to how she cringed and growled. He simply stroked her hair.

* * *

In the middle of the Silithus Desert

You want to know how I ended up in the middle of the Silithus desert? Good, we're on the same page then. I want to know as well. It might have had something to do with how my voice faltered when I read off the spell. It might have had to do with the spell itself. It might have had to do with a butterfly flapping its wings ten thousand years in the past that should have flapped its wings at a seventy-three degree angle, but instead flapped them at a seventy-two-point-five-nine degree angle. Or maybe it had something to do with a god. I pick a god. They're easy to blame.

In any event, it reminds me of why I'm not religiously affiliated. I hate the misbegotten wretch of a deity who landed me here.

Let me recap. My name is Nathanos Blightcaller. At an early age, I was taken in by the elves and taught to be a Ranger Lord- a king of rangers. I'm the only human Ranger Lord to have ever existed. Then I died. The Lich King raised my corpse. The Dark Lady gave me back my mind. I slaughtered undead and humans alike, and reveled in mindless sadistic bloodshed.

And then Ketala Truae came along. Ketala was a paladin. An _undead_ paladin. An _empathetic _undead paladin. Who talks to animals. And believes in life and goodness in all things. And is perfect. And always does the right thing. Yeah. Have I sickened you enough yet? Oh wait- let me throw in the kicker!

She fell in love with me, the broody, dark, sadistic "character" in dire need of salvation. She tried to save my soul. She is as storybook and cliché as is undeadly possible. Please tell me you hate her as much as I do right now. No? Then I'll go on!

She also happens to be my soulmate! Yup, good ol ' soul-buddies we are. She's my exact height, she's an expert at martial combat, she's half elemental, she's the daughter of a lich who sacrificed his mortality to be with his beloved in undeath, she was raised by _and inspired compassion in_ Kel'Thuzad, the right hand of Arthas, and her eyes change colors. Did I mention she's beautiful? And thin?

Good. Now that we all hate Ketala, we can swear at her, and hate her, and wish her an early and terribly anticlimactic death at the hands of some minor opponent who's completely and entirely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

Because she's responsible- I'm certain- for the fact that I am currently in the Silithus desert listening to an insane necromancer yelling about gastropods and a naked ex-lich/revived human cry about never seeing his beloved again. Oh yes! I've forgotten to introduce my companions!

First there is the insane necromancer. He babbles about gastropods- which I've learned are a grouping of creatures that include snails and slugs. He also runs around babbling other nonsense. He has the short term memory of a goldfish, and the common sense of a squirrel. His cow skull hat (As in, it is a cow skull that he wears upon his head) continuously falls in front of his face. Each time it does, he screams that he is blind and runs around in circles with his hands in the air.

Second, there is Ras Frostwhisper, the recently resuscitated sire of sweet Ketala. He's currently putting on the PURPLE dress of his deceased beloved, as he has no other clothes available. He ordinarily would not do such a thing, I think, but I believe he is getting sunburned in places men should never be sunburned.

As if all of this were not enough, we're in the middle of the Silithus desert with nothing but empty yellow wasteland in all directions, and there are giant insects flying around attacking people for no apparent reason. Joy!

Well, the good news is, I _will_ get some slaughtering done. If I don't kill my two companions, I'll at least get to hack apart a few hundred insects. Looking at it that way, the day doesn't seem so bad.

Or it shouldn't.

It wouldn't.

Except Ketala's in danger, and the Silithus desert is about as far as you can get on Azeroth from her location. And despite all my griping, and how ridiculously perfect and pathetic and _foolish_ she is- Despite how much I _hate_ her with every last remaining fiber of my being…

Despite all that…

…

Despite all that I have this wretched feeling inside that this is going to turn out extremely cliché. And that I'll end up alone and miserable if it doesn't.

Grand choices, yes?

* * *

Silithus

Nathanos put an arrow through the head of his one hundred and sixty-first wasp that evening. It would have been more relaxing to butcher the insects by hand with his axes, but those particular weapons had been severely damaged in his last battle. He had long ago run out of arrows, and was instead firing sharpened insect parts at his opponents. They did their job well enough. Ahead of him, he could see lights. The lights were approximately the right luminosity for lanterns. It was possible that they were perpetuated by the insects, but he didn't really mind. If he found more insects, he would kill more insects. If he found more people he would kill more people. Unless they had a Windmaster, in which case he would only critically wound more people.

The necromancer still tottered after him, and Ras seemed to follow only because he had nowhere else to go. The Ranger Lord was not certain why he had not killed his companions. After a bit of unwanted introspection, he determined that it was because they helped him maintain his self control. As long as they were around, he had a focus for his hate.

His sociopathic tendencies were starting to get the better of him, however. If they didn't find a city soon, he was going to have force-feed the necromancer to the local fauna.

"You know, I was in the army once!" that selfsame necromancer was projecting enthusiastically. "I'm quite handy with a battle axe! I know I don't look it, but I was a powerhouse in the old days! There was this one expedition I remember where we were crawling through the undergrowth- because these stories always have undergrowth, as you well know- and we came upon the ancient desert civilization of the merfolk!"

Hmm. The necromancer was normally spouting nonsense, but his last rant held a whiff of something more- something bordering on total incoherency. As far as Nathanos could tell, the necromancer was human. Perhaps the man was starting to suffer from heat stroke. Nathanos squinted lightly. He could just make out what appeared to be walls. Still, he was not one to get his hopes up about anything, and he simply trudged on.

As night fell, the necromancer grew quiet. Nathanos was so astonished by the sudden quiet period, that he looked behind himself several times in order to make sure that the man hadn't died on him. Not that he would have minded if he had. The necromancer seemed rather subdued. He was rubbing his face in a sleepy and childish fashion, and was leaning heavily on his staff. This of course caused the staff to sink deep into the desert sand, and so he spent more effort yanking his staff out of the sand than he saved by leaning on it in the first place. Ras, on the other hand, displayed no signs of fatigue. The man had been silent since they first arrived in the desert, and his solemn demeanor had not changed since then. It had been several months, and yet the ex-lich had not spoken a word.

Nathanos snorted and looked back toward the lights. If they waited for dawn, he would be able to see what they were approaching. After coming to a decision, the ranger abruptly halted and sat down. He had three, living, dreadmist spiders for animal companions, after all. If he were to march too long or too hard, they might fall ill. And he couldn't allow that.

The necromancer took out a chunk of bug meat and began munching on it. When he was done, he found himself a nice rocky patch of ground to lie down on. Ras sat down and meditated. After awhile, he conjured himself some bread and water. Nathanos tended to his animal companions, and then drew out his axes. He looked around at the barren waste that sprawled out all around him, and then looked down at the weapons. After a moment, he started working to repair them.

* * *

Moonglade

I cannot believe I did not see it before. I cannot believe it took me this long to understand. She is _different. _And not just because there is a demon within her. I thought to make her gentle and sweet. I thought to pacify her spirit and make her more like us.

I was a fool for my blindness.

This is what the spirits were trying to tell me! I have been wrong. I have been reaching the wrong way! I cannot make Ember gentle, because Ember is not gentle. Ember is wild and animalistic. She adheres to her most primal instincts. This rage I see- it is not simply a product of her demonic corruption. This is pure animalistic instinct.

I thought Ember was so far removed from everything nature. I was a fool. She's closer to the beasts of the forest than even Fenuine is. That's her strength. She's a queen among predators. She kills small creatures out of frustration, but also out of carnivorous cunning. She's not like us. The part of her that's free from Archimonde is not like us. And only now have I begun to see it! Rather than being a druid like myself, or a priestess like Tyrande, Ember is more of a beastmaster… More at home with the animals than with people.

I am sure I cannot fully comprehend the situation. Her reactions to my attempts to reach her have been hostile and enraged. It is possible I have done more ill than good. Ah, but at last I have a clue! At last I know how I might reach her! At last I have an idea of how to begin! Fil'naveth's hippogriffs laid eggs some time ago. They should be close to hatching now. I am certain that if I give Ember the companionship of one of these creatures, I will be able to reach her. I might be able to use the hippogriff as a learning tool. At the very least, she will no longer be so alone.

* * *

Theramore

Jaina flicked through the pages of her book. It was a magic tome, of course. She was researching the art of combining magic with martial combat. So far, practitioners of this art were fairly rare. Mages had a tendency to see themselves as superior to other beings. They also saw magic as superior to normal combat. In addition, mages with any real talent generally did not want to give up precious studying time in order to practice whacking each other with sticks.

Still, some high elves boasted their ability to wage war both with magic and with more mundane means. The Blood Elf spell breaker was an example of this continuing dual-proficiency. If Prince Kael'Thas- he continued to title himself prince, perhaps out of respect for the fallen- had remained in Azeroth, she might have questioned him about this. Unfortunately, Kael had left some time ago for Outland. It was amusing to note that both Illidan Stormrage and Lady Vashj were also proficient in physical combat, and that the both of them were unavailable for the same reasons as Kael'Thas.

Jaina readjusted her book. Doing so caused one of her charcoal pencils to drop to the ground. She looked to the side of her table and smiled. The sorceress kept only one pet- a pet that was both mundane and magnificent. His name was Mathghamhuin, and he was a large brown canine. For this reason, he was mundane, as the Lady Proudmoore could surely possess any pet she desired. However, Math was also a Frostwolf. This made him magnificent.

The wolf lifted his head and then snatched up her fallen pencil gently in his jaws. He stood and lowered his head to place the pencil carefully on her desk, and then cocked his head to the side. His mouth opened and his tongue lolled out as his dark lips curled up into a big wolfish smile. Jaina laughed and ruffled his ears affectionately. The hound was almost full grown. Math had aged slowly for a canine, but due to his long lifespan and his massive size, such sluggish aging was to be expected. Currently the beast was four feet tall at the shoulder. In a year or so, he would be large enough to ride.

Jaina idly pondered whether or not she would actually use the great beast for a war mount. There had- fortunately- been no wars recently, but that did not mean that Jaina could not utilize a mount for occasional skirmishes and conflicts. In addition, Math would soon grow to the same bulk as a war horse, and it wouldn't be possible to keep him cooped up in her rooms all night and day. While the wolf was surprisingly calm and spatially aware, he was still a dog. Math liked to run, and chase things, and howl. He got excited and knocked things over and didn't always use the litter box. Yes. He had a litter box. She was very careful not to let Thrall know.

Perhaps she would have the Warchief train Math to carry her into battle. It would be a political scandal if she actually ever rode the creature, but political problems were so numerous in those days that she didn't really mind another one. So what if all Azeroth knew she had a Frostwolf? It already knew that she and Thrall communicated frequently. Stormwind had already formed its opinions. Riding Math would only cause harmless gossip.

Jaina kissed the wolf on the nose, and received a thorough licking for her troubles.

Trade was soaring. The fishing was good. Theramore had received a good deal on lumber that year, and would be able to build more ships to catch more fish to do more trade to get more lumber. All of this meant that her people were happy. Fishing was the lifeline of Theramore Isle, after all.

Theramore ships were the best in the world- on par with the fleets of Kul'Tiras. And, unlike the orcs, the citizens of Theramore Isle were inherently seamen. They understood the moods and whims of the sea like they understood breathing. They could find fish where orcs could find none. They could coax movement from the stillest air. They could track a whale pod through the deepest ocean. It was their realm and their craft, and because of it, they managed to flourish.

For the first in a long time, it looked like their interracial peace might actually hold together.

Jaina rapped her hand against her oak desk in order not to jinx everything. After all, they only needed one poor fishing season- one interracial conflict- one bad storm- one bigoted official - and everything would fall apart. They required every last scrap of luck they could get.

* * *

Moonglade

The little girl crept silently through her home. It was daytime, and her family was fast asleep. Light oozed tentatively through the living room windows, giving everything a soft purple glow. Everything was rather purple in Moonglade. It had to do with how the light came down through the great trees. In Moonglade, all the trees had purple leaves. She could hear the gentle creaking and groaning of those trees. She could feel a light breeze, and could hear the soft patter of leaves against the ground. All of the sounds egged her on- insisted that she follow her instincts.

She picked up a chair, and carefully carried it to one of the walls of her home. Positioning it firmly against the wall, she stepped up onto its seat. Even with the added height of the chair, she was not quite tall enough, so she stood upon the tips of her toes, and strained for all she was worth.

After a moment of futile grabbing, she felt the handle of her mother's war glaive under her fingers. She breathed in slowly, and stretched her spinal cord out to its fullest extent. Her hand moved as far as it could go. With uncharacteristic diligence, Ember silently lifted the war glaive from its hook. The chair wobbled and Ember tensed, concentrating intently on not dropping the glaive. As soon as the weapon was free, she relaxed and drew it down to her eye level for a closer examination. After a brief moment, she carefully dismounted the chair. She set the glaive on the kitchen table, picked up the chair, and put it back in its proper location. So far, so good. Once this was done, she reclaimed the glaive, and headed upstairs.

Her mother had placed wards on almost every exit of the house. An owl was seated at every window and at every door. Well, almost every window… there were no owls in her mother's bedroom. So Ember ascended the stairs and retrieved a length of rope that she had stolen a few days previously. She then moved to her parents' room, slowly pushing open the door. Ember had opened that specific door several times the day before; it had taught to open it without out a creak. The girl pushed her weight into the wooden frame just right, and the door opened without a sound.

Ember had planned everything out. She knew, of course, that this was dangerous. By thinking things through, she was allowing her inner demon to influence her thoughts. She knew that if she made it out of her house, it meant that the demon desired her to escape. Still, it was the only way. Ember needed to get to Illidan, and the only way she could do that was by escaping her home. And the only way she could escape her home was by thinking things through. She had to simply hope that she would be able to counteract whatever her demon had planned for her. And she had to hope that she was not falling further under his power.

The little girl moved past her parents with silent confidence. She carefully navigated the boards that did not creak, and made her way to their bed. Both Malfurion and Tyrande were fast asleep and lying only inches away from her.

Asleep. Sleeping.

Ember hesitated. She looked down at her elegant war glaive, and then, ponderously, lifted her gaze to Furion.

Sleeping. Fast asleep. The old elf sported a thick green beard, but his throat was still visible. Visible enough. The little girl took a curious step towards him, her hand tightening on the handle of the glaive. It would be so easy. So easy to slice through that throat. So easy to push the blade in, severing jugular, esophagus, trachea, and vertebrae. So easy to kill the object of her pain and hatred. So easy to soothe her frustration and anger.

She lifted her glaive, her heart starting to beat more rapidly. She could kill him. He'd never be able to follow her, or stop her. He couldn't keep her away from her uncle. He'd be punished.

She lifted a hand to her sire's antlers. She gripped one of the branches - both to steady him and to steady herself. She lifted the war glaive.

NO! This was not the plan! This was not the plan! This was wrong- dangerous- _DEMON!_ She could not know whose desire this was! She could not know if she, Ember, truly desired to kill him, and so she could not- she _must not!_ She jerked away from the druid as if she had been bitten. Her name, her autonomy, her very existence depended upon this! She could not kill him- she had to get away! Had to get to safety and instinct and rage!

Ember whirled around and dashed for the rope. She pulled it frantically to the window. Desperate to escape, she forced herself to _do_ rather than _think_. She forced herself out the window and down the rope. She forced herself to flee as quickly as possible.

* * *

Moonglade

A gust of wind. Branches clattered gently against the walls of the bedroom. A breeze trickled in through the window. The sounds of the forest were amplified a thousand times. The quiet of the forest grew, intensified, until the snapping of every twig was as loud as a peal of thunder. The quiet strengthened. It became something almost tangible- a thick and oppressive presence.

Furion suddenly bolted to a sitting position, his eyes opening wide. Tyrande grunted and stirred at his sudden movement. Malfurion breathed in sharply. His eyes settled on the rope that Ember had secured to the foot of his bed. Immediately he threw off his covers and dashed to the window.

He saw a shock of violet hair disappear into the undergrowth.

"_Ember!_"

* * *

Yayyy! Now review! Or I wont update! 

YARG!


	2. Pacts

Yayy! Nine reviews! Count them! Nine! I've never been so happy! And look, I got inspired because of it! Yay!

I would like to say that I am EXTREMELY self conscious about this chapter, but I hope you'll like it anyway. I would like to start with the disclaimer that the relationships presented therein were constructed over the course of 44 chapters and 350,000 words in MahiMahi, and the events leading up to these can be located within that fanfic (in case you find something to be out of the blue).

* * *

**_Pacts_**

* * *

Silverpine, Many Months Ago

"Awww! Aren't they the cutest evil little spiders you've ever seen?"

"Do not make me kill them."

Ketala laughed and gently stroked one of the poisonous green arachnids. The two had finally found the time to go out and find Nathanos replacement animal companions. For this, they had traveled out in the wilderness of Si lverpine. The two companions were currently standing atop a small hill, looking out across a field of slaughtered werewolves. Their trip had taken longer than they had expected, as they had been ambushed several times along the way, and so the sun was just about to set.

Ketala was normally sensitive about killing. She preferred to kill only those creatures which had absolutely no chance at being "redeemed". However, the paladin girl had cut through the werewolves with mindless abandon. Even with all the gore nearby, she was sitting on her rump and cuddling one of his new animal companions. Apparently the werewolves were beyond hope.

"But if you do," she protested mischievously, "you'll be all alone again, with no one but me to keep you company!"

Nathanos grimaced. "I retract my threat."

She laughed again, and his insides smiled contently. Ketala's laughter was unique among undead. It was young, naïve, and innocent. Rather than being a mad cackle, her laugh was a joyful exclamation. The smile on her face was mischievous and teasing- filled with energy. Alive. His two uncuddled dreadmist spiders clustered around him as he sat down beside her.

She turned her eyes to the sunset and smiled lightly. "Pretty," she murmured. "Looks like a fiery apocalypse. Works well with all the blood." Nathanos smirked and wondered whether she was being silly, or whether the sunset actually did remind her of what she claimed. Maybe a bit of both.

His inherent sadism had been tempered by Ketala's constant presence. In turn, he brought out the imperfections- the personality- in her. It was a balancing act. Both individuals gave to and took from their relationship. A breed of desensitization was one of Nathanos's "gifts". It might have been inadvertently responsible for Ketala's morbid interpretation of the sunset.

In any event, the ranger turned his gaze from her to his pets. After rummaging through his pack, he found some mushrooms and strips of meat for them to eat. "Nathanos?" Ketala asked after a moment. He grunted to indicate he was listening. She looked back at him and then shifted, sidling closer to him. The ranger lifted his gaze lazily to hers, an amused expression on his face.

"What do you want, and how much pride is it going to cost me?" he asked dryly.

She just grinned, her eyes whirling yellow and pink with mirth.

"That look frightens me."

"As it should…" she said forebodingly. "It is the look that heralds the coming of… THE HUGGING TORTURE! BWAHAHAHAHAH!" she cried, half-tackling him and hugging him tightly.

Nathanos grunted and gave an annoyed expression. "How is it that you managed to absorb the art of manic laughter without learning the evil deeds manic laughter is required for?"

"What?" she gasped. "I object! _You_ feel that I am being _quite_ dastardly!"

"You've missed the principle of the thing. And I rest my case."

She giggled and gave him a squeeze, nuzzling her cheek into him. The Ranger Lord sighed profoundly. He looked down at her from the corner of his eye for a long moment, and then slowly wrapped his arms around her and began stroking her back. He could give in a little, couldn't he? She smiled after a bit and looked up at him fondly.

"Don't look so smug," he said with mild vexation.

"Don't be so offended by the fact that someone treasures your embrace," she countered. Nathanos snorted and then tensed as she kissed him, her mouth soft against his. After a moment, she released the kiss and pulled back an inch. He simply stared at her. She lifted a hand to his face and her fingers began stroking through his hair and over his cheek. He continued to stare.

He was fond of her. Very fond. And that translated into an overwhelming need to convey affection. But there was a problem. The last time Nathanos had given in to a desire to convey affection, he'd been totally swamped by Ketala's mind, to the point where he was sorely lacking in freewill.

Which left him with a dilemma.

And unfortunately, he wasn't going to get any time to think about it. Ketala kissed him again, and this time much more passionately. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and held his mouth firmly against hers.

…Damn. He could feel his entire essence respond to her. He could feel the overwhelming desire to be near her, close to her, pressed against her- as if by sheer will he could somehow combine with her to become one. Her mind wrapped around his, immersive and as soothing as a soft spring rain. The ranger's eyes rolled up a bit and fluttered shut as he immediately returned the force of her kiss, his arms tightening around her.

She was surprised at the intensity of his response, and catching her off guard pleased him. Her armor was digging painfully into his arms, so his nimble fingers quickly began working the latches that would free her of the white plate.

Tossing aside her armor, of course, meant that he was going to lose his. He did not mind, holding his companion tightly against him and rubbing her back in a circular motion. He kissed her mouth, and chin, and jaw, and received such affections in return. Her caresses ran over his hair and cheek and shoulders.

Pure ecstasy. Pure euphoria. Pure bliss. His mind was utterly vulnerable in this state, but he trusted her. His faith was not misplaced.

He leaned back against the face of the hill, pulling her down tightly against him and wrapping a leg around one of hers. His arms tightened around her torso and shoulders and he clutched her tightly to him, smothering his face into her shoulder and throat and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. So precious… So precious…

"Ketala…" he murmured.

"… I'm here…" And then softer, "I love you…"

He decided to ruin the mood. "Ketala…" he repeated in a soft voice. "There are worgen running around."

He failed. The paladin girl laughed and hugged him tighter, kissing his ear and hair and shoulder.

Nathanos lost his cloak and boots before his heart finally betrayed him and began beating. He'd expected the miserable organ to do just that: it had done so in several instances when he was in extreme Ketala-related duress. At the first beat, Ketala jumped and looked up at him in surprise.

"Your heart is beating," she reflected.

"Did you think I could not tell?" he asked dryly, kissing her temple.

"When did that start?"

"Just now. What kind of stupid question is that?"

She pinched him and grinned when he squirmed in annoyance. " 'Just now'? What kind of stupid answer is that?" He grunted but said nothing, stroking his slender, nimblethrough her hair. "Nathanos."

"Hmm?" he asked indolently. She was about to say something when, to show his mastery of the ability to discomfit others, he pushed his tongue into her ear. She gave a very satisfying squeal(of horror or outrage- he couldn't tell which) and convulsed in an attempt to jerk her head away from him. She need not have bothered, for he immediately pulled his head back and burst out laughing.

He laughed richly and warmly, and then despite her reproachful glare he kissed her. She lifted her arm to ward off his kiss and gave a grimace of displeasure.

"That was disgusting!"

The ranger grinned and took two of her fingers into his mouth and gently sucked on them. She made a face and recoiled a bit, her expression uncertain. He blinked and released her hand, docking his head to the side and regarding her.

For one peculiar moment, they were both awkwardly and keenly aware of how their bodies were twined together. Arms, legs and torsos, tangled together into one unified whole… Their bodies pressed together… After a moment, he lifted a hand to her face, and gently brushed the back of his hand over her cheek and jaw.

"It's okay," he whispered. He brushed soft black hair from her face, and then cupped her other cheek and brushed his thumb reassuringly over her countenance. She looked up at him a long moment, and then closed her eyes. "It's okay…" he murmured again, kissing her brow.

He felt her heart move.

Ketala's eyes opened wide, and she stared at him in astonishment. Ketala's life had been ended by a blade to the heart. She was in pristine condition, lacking any kind of rot or decay. Her lungs worked. Her stomach worked. Her liver would probably work , if she had a circulatory system. But not her heart. Not -

It moved again, and produced a squishing, twisting noise.

After a moment, the paladin lifted a hand to her chest and holy energy whirled around her fingers. Nathanos tensed slightly and pulled back an inch. Although holy energy had no adverse effect on Ketala, it would still burn him. She laid her palm flat against her chest, and the squishing became streamlined and deeper, until it was a strong and healthy heartbeat. After a moment, she removed her hand, and looked curiously up at him.

"Does this make me an _un_-undead?"

A grin split open his face and he rested back against her, feeling her heart beat against his own. "Well, that would be using a double negative. Grammatically, wouldn't that make you a 'dead'?"

"Oh splendid. I was undead and then my heart started beating, so I'm now classified as dead? You can tell that this naming convention needs work."

"Of course. The word "undead" is absurd."

She grinned and kissed his throat. His eyes closed to slits, so she held him against her and gently administered that affection down the length of his neck.

He had been dead for a long time. Forgotten emotions stirred within the depths of his frame; things he had not felt for the better part of a decade. Things he had never required for his bond with Ketala. But things that, nevertheless, were not unpleasant. He looked at her affectionately, hands stroking through her hair and heart beating softly against hers. If she allowed it… If he could be certain it would not damage her naïve innocence… Then perhaps…

After a moment, he shifted and brought his hands to the hem of her tunic.

* * *

Silithus

Nathanos' eyes opened wide and he shuddered. His heartbeat thrummed gently in the confines of his chest, and he clutched the ground beneath him. The ground… It was sand. He shivered and looked around, reminding himself of where he was and what had happened. Silithus. And Ketala…

Nathanos sighed, clutching his torso tightly, as if he could will his heart to stop beating. He'd torn out the organ once before, just to stop its demanding assertion. The assertion that he missed her, and he loved her, and that somehow he had to get to her. The assertion that he was unhappy and under stress, and miserable. The only reason he had a heart _now_ was because he had been healed.

He was healed often. Ketala would wrap his mind in hers in order to grant him immunity him to holy energy, so that he might be healed… Or Zul'vii would heal him… Or someone else would heal him… It happened a lot. It kept him in good condition; kept his fingers nimble, his senses acute, and his body strong. It had also restored that thrice-damned heart.

The heart was a devious little thing, waiting until he was at his least cognizant before it sprung. It would tap into his memories and shape them into dreams. It would not let him forget.

* * *

Moonglade

Ember moved as quickly as she could, sprinting barefoot across the ground. For a few minutes, all was silent. Then, suddenly, everything seemed to awaken and come to life. Furion was awake. He was looking for her. Ember could not possibly hide. She did not try. Instead, she ran and ran. Even when she could hear the soft padding of pursuing Nightsabers, she ran.

And then she had found her only means of escape. Ember seized the black feathers, and hoisted herself onto the broad back. Her legs looped somewhat around the beast's middle, and she buried her face into its velvety cowl.

Fyrak gave a cry and then bolted forward, his wings beating furiously. Within moments, the little girl was lost to the sky.

* * *

Ravenholdt Manor

She was called Puma. Her name was well suited to her. A puma, also known as a cougar or mountain lion, was a large and readily adapting feline. It was extremely slender, agile, and secretive. It could take down several times its own weight. It also could not roar, and instead made noises much more common with those of common domesticated felines.

Puma pretty much fit the bill. Although she was fairly tall, she held herself in a peculiar manner that, without fail, caused her to appear meek and unthreatening. The undead woman would cower into herself, slump, and keep her eyes focused continuously on the floor. For these reasons, she was exceedingly good at her job. Her reflexes were uncanny. She could take down opponents far more skilled and powerful than herself. Her tracking and stealthing abilities were phenomenal. No one suspected her, and so she was the most promising trainee that the Undercity had to offer.

Unfortunately, she was also stupid.

Fahrad sighed, looking the girl up and down. Her terrified and meek demeanor was so convincing that it nearly sickened him, and yet the girl was almost entirely useless to him. Idly, he wondered how the undead female had ever found Ravenholdt Manor.

The female looked up at him, her face peeking out from beneath her tangled mess of blonde hair. By the Light, she even had freckles. _No _one ever suspected people with freckles! Ever! It was like Fate was doing this just to torment him. He needed a rogue who could spy- not just one who could track and kill. And this girl, Puma, was an extremely simple and unintelligent creature. Her instinct and cunning was unprecedented- she could get herself into and out of almost any situation- but she lacked any other mental functions whatsoever. For starters, the girl barely spoke, and could only understand simple sentences. Worse, she was illiterate ; and to top it off, she had the social capability of a lump of mud.

He watched as she brought a hand up to her face and pushed some hair out of her way. The movement was so innocuous that he felt like crying. She had just slipped a small poisonous dagger from behind her ear into her right hand. Even _he_ had almost missed the motion.

The Grand Master Rogue lifted a hand to his face and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Abruptly, he paused. What if he paired her up with another rogue? He lifted his head to look up at the undead female, and then gestured for her to approach him. She seemed to read body language well enough, and so she took a slow step in his direction. Fahrad lifted his right hand to grab her jaw, so that he might determine the extent of her undead decay. His left hand caught her wrist as she attempted to stab him, and gently extracted the poisonous dagger from her grip.

Hygiene seemed to be beyond Puma's comprehension, but her face was relatively unmarred. With her timid and dismissible manner, she could easily pass herself off as a terrified human female. Still… her eyes were disturbingly blank, giving away nothing concerning the female's inner thoughts. Fahrad lifted up the poisoned dagger and toyed with it.

"Do you attempt to kill everything you come across?" he asked her inquiringly. She didn't blink, staring at him impassively. He smirked and patted her gently on the head. "I thought so. I think I have a use for you after all." She lifted a hand to his, and extracted her dagger from his fingers. He let her, and observed her with some curiosity. She deftly slid the dagger into her sleeve, stepped backwards, and gave a light bow of her head. He tilted his head to the side and then dismissed her.

Such a bizarre creature.

* * *

Felwood

Gone. The camp had been deserted a long time. Perhaps it had been deserted since Illidan returned her to her parents. The tents had been taken down. The fire pits had long gone cold. The permanent homes had been burnt. The camp that Illidan's people had long called home was desolate. Ember looked around with a quiet, pained expression on her face.

_Now what?_ her mind inquired quietly .

Now what, indeed. He'd left. How would she find him? She had to think. But – she couldn't think. It was too dangerous. But then how would she find him? That was her goal.

She had to make sacrifices. She had to get to him.

She could let Archimonde open a portal. _She_ could open a portal. She could open it to the exact spot Illidan had opened his. She could sense the old portal. That's where he'd gone. Outland. Illidan was in Outland. She could open a portal; she could follow him.

She was so lost. So damned. She could not trust her own mind. She couldn't get to her uncle without relying on the very thing that sought to consume her- her own head.

Ember shuddered, then screamed and kicked brutally through an abandoned pile of crates. She shrieked and attacked them, ripping them apart. The rage consumed her, strengthened her, and comforted her. She ripped apart everything within her reach and then tore at the ground and screamed out her fury to the sky.

A shadow fell over her. Enraged, she shrieked and whirled around to look up at the one who dared approach her.

A female creature stood there. She was exceptionally tall- perhaps eight or so feet in height. Her skin was a creamy green color, and her hair was a weird blend of brown, green, and cyan. Small tusks protruded from her lower jaw, and her eyes were a brilliant orange. Although her forehead was swept back, her face was delicately and nobly featured. Each of her hands had five fingers, and her feet had four toes.

Ember only noticed all of this because the sight of this creature gave her pause. A butterfly feeling erupted through her, a fluttering and unpleasant sensation that flipped her stomach upside down. Her hatred rushed madly in all directions and burnt out, and a deep, foreboding pit of dread opened up in the middle of her stomach. Her legs went weak and she shrank down, her eyes fixed on the curious face of the green creature. And yet… Something, something was wrong! At the same time as she felt this sense of foreboding, Ember felt a great rush of strength and contentment.

To Ember's pure astonishment, _she_ had no fear of this creature. It was Archimonde who was terrified ! Immediately, the rest of the world vanished. She focused solely on this strange greenish being, on this potential benefactor whose mere presence could so upset her tormentor.

"'Ey dere. What da 'ell are you doing dis far into Felwood?" the creature inquired in (completely and entirely butchered) Nightelfin. Her inflections were so confusing that it took Ember a moment to figure out what she was saying. The female spoke with a rolling intonation that bundled all her words together in bizarre ways.

Ember shivered, trying to overcome her tormentor's fear.

"You be lookin' for Illidan?"

The Nightelfin girl's ears pricked up immediately. The green female laughed and crouched down.

"Oh c'mon. How can I not be telling dat? Joo look just like 'im. Even got his scowl, haha!" she exclaimed.

Ember blinked in bewilderment, and cringed a bit as the green female picked her up under the arms and stood up with her. The ground was suddenly very far away, and she could look down at Fyrak.

"No need to be so scared lookin'. Joo could probably maul de 'ell out of poor Zul'vii's face, heh heh… 'Ey mon, joo okay? Look, I know I be a troll, but I not be eatin' joo or anyting, kay? Cross my heart and hope to die."

"You talk…" Ember ventured her first words to this Trollish female.

"Funny? Ja mon, I know. It whatcha get when _island_ trolls be teachin' ya Nightelfin. Hmm." She turned her gaze to look at Fyrak. "Can joo talk to him?"

Ember looked at the hippogriff and then quietly nodded her head. "I… think so."

"Well, joo just tell him to follow me. I'll be takin' you to my camp; it be safer dere."

The little girl could only nod her head. Her inner demon's fear and the troll woman's strange accent were confusing her.

* * *

Ravenholdt Manor

Puma had finished her training early that day, and had wandered outside the manor. There were other people on the Ravenholdt grounds, but Puma ignored them. She did not like the cultivated beauty that Simone Cantrell , the Ravenholdt "Landscape Architect" , found so appealing. Instead, she slipped off into the brush surrounding the manor.

Puma could wander pointlessly for hours. She liked forests, especially overgrown or swampy ones. Unfortunately, she rarely got a chance to visit such places. The Tirisfal Glades were remarkably devoid of wild, free areas, and Silverpine was overrun by worgs. Hillsbrad was the only place she had ever been where there had been true forests. She liked it there.

The soft drone of insect wings finally worked its way into her senses. Puma blinked a few times, and then realized she had wandered close to a small pond. Bullfrogs were chirping slightly, and a large dragonfly whizzed by one of her ears. The pond was overgrown and extremely marshy. Grass stuck up from its shallow areas, and she had the suspicion that all earth within three feet of the pond was nothing but waterlogged mud.

She tilted her head to the side, and observed the stagnant waters for a long moment. Familiar. She took a step towards the water, and then hesitated, looking down at her feet. The undead paused a moment to allow her mental faculties to catch up, and then she squatted down and pulled both of her boots off. She gave a small smile when this was done, and then stood. She hopped up onto a rotten log and walked carefully to the edge of the pond. There she paused, like a ballerina mid-pose for several moments. Coming to a decision, the girl crouched down on the rotten log and then looped her legs off to the side, and sank her feet into the cool mud surrounding the pond.

She gave a rare expression of delight, and wriggled her toes in order to savor the sensation. Mud. Cool, squishy mud. A buzzing noise. She held perfectly still, allowing only her eyes to move. They roved across her plane of vision until they finally caught up with the erratic movements of a large black fly. She tensed, allowing all of her body to synchronize. Her tendons, bones, and muscles melted away, merging into a singular entity. Her body did not move. There was no tension of her muscles, nor any relaxation. She held perfectly still as her inner energy aligned and her instinct took control.

Her hand was resting on her side one moment. The next it was in the air, a large, grotesque black fly held gently between her pointer finger and thumb. Puma smiled and then quickly drew her hands to her mouth. The muscles in her jaw moved, and when she pulled her hands away, no buzzing noise was to be heard.

There was a brief silence in the drone of insect wings. Puma blinked and turned her head. Watching her from the trees was an old orc. His gray beard had been meticulously braided, and what remained of his hair stuck out in a short horsetail. His skin was an ugly off-yellow color. The corners of his mouth sagged with age, and his tusks were browned. He was dressed in pristine gray robes and shoes- neither of which seemed to be picking up any filth from his environment. It disturbed Puma that he had gotten so close without warning, and she immediately cowered.

He smiled and gave a deep, guttural laugh. "That will not work on me, little one. I saw you catch the insect. Such internal attunement normally takes decades to achieve. I was an old orc by the time I was capable of such a feat." He moved silently towards her, placing each foot with a grace and patience unheard of in his species. "Fahrad says you are newly awakened. This, I believe, is true… but not in the sense that he perceived it. Your inner energy has a very distinctive shape to it. It is strange beyond anything I have ever seen."

Puma held very still, her blond mane obscuring most of her face. She did not blink, her entire body rigid.

"I see it now, inside of you… Preparing to strike…" He tilted his head to the side. "I have never seen any youth align their body with such ease… It is as if it is second nature to you. To hold so still and then lash out; your enemy blissfully ignorant of your presence." He took another step forward and slowly lifted his hands, palms facing up. "I will not hurt you, little one. Nor am I prey."

Again, the girl called Puma did not move. It was very difficult to tell whether or not she was relaxing. Still, he took another step forward, up to the edge of her rotten log, and then halted.

"Awakened… yes…" he murmured, "but not from slumber or death. You were recently awakened into sentience, were you not? You are not human- not deep inside. Your spirit is the spirit of an animal. Were you raised by animals, I wonder? Are you some sort of reincarnation? Or perhaps touched by the spirits?"

No response.

"But you are human in body and in mind… I will not hurt you. You understand that." Slowly, carefully, he extended a hand towards her.

Puma did nothing for a long, long moment. Then, slowly, she pulled her feet out of the slick mud. She stood up on the rotten log, and walked towards the orc with a balance unheard of in a normal human. Without so much as wavering, she slipped past him, walked up to where she had left her boots, and picked them up off the ground. She felt him touch her shoulder and immediately she flinched away, twisting and jumping backwards into a low lying branch.

The orc sighed slightly, noting that she'd just jumped backwards onto a drooping branch suspended four feet in the air without once using her hands. "I want to teach you," he said very gently. "You are not whole, and you know it. You have only tapped the surface of your abilities."

Puma just slipped a dagger out of one of her boots.

The orc frowned a moment and then attempted a different approach. "Puma. You Puma."

She gave a light twitch of her head- the tiniest of nods, and her brows furrowed lightly over her unexpressive eyes.

"Kang. I Kang." He touched his own chest in emphasis, and waited for that fact to seep into her brain. Then, he finished with: "Kang help Puma. Friend. Help."

Puma gave another one of her long contemplative pauses. After a moment, she carefully slipped the dagger back into its sheath, and then hopped down from her branch. She took a step forward and came straight into his personal space with no respect whatsoever for individual boundaries. He eyed her quietly, his body prepared to catch any dagger she might thrust at him. She did not attack, and merely eyed him attentively. Her nostrils flared lightly as she analyzed his smell.

And then she licked his cheek, slathering half his face with undead human saliva. To his credit, the orc stood stock still, and kept a solemn expression upon his face. Puma pondered for a moment more. "Okay," she said at last, and she pushed past him and headed back for the manor.

* * *

Felwood

The troll female brought Ember back to a little nook in the side of a cliff face. The area was surrounded by bramble s and dead trees, and was entirely obscured from outside view. There was no fire in the cave- the smoke would have given the hiding place away- but there were blankets and other such nuances that gave the nook a safe and homey feel. Once the troll was certain that no monstrosities had followed them, she set Ember down on the floor, and went to dig around in a pack. "So," the strange green creature began, "whatcho lookin ' for Illidan for?"

Ember frowned and looked quietly at the troll. "…Who are you?"

The troll laughed and then procured a few dried strips of meat. "I be Zul'vii, at your service. Did joo miss my name earlier? Mm, dis speaking ting could be a problem. Joo speak Common?"

The little girl's brows moved furrowed, and then she nodded her head.

"Ah!" the troll exclaimed in Common, startling the small child. "Much better, then. I can speak Common with relative clarity. My name is Zul'vii. I'm a friend of Illidan's… Erm… well, sort of. The idiot could have sent me a message, though. Now I have to go all the way back to where I came from. It's not like I wasn't in the Blasted Lands to begin with! The portal to Outland was _right there_! Hmph… Well, who are you?"

"… Ember."

"Last name?"

"Stormrage…" Zul'vii cocked her head to the side and offered the strips of meat to the little girl.

"Here. I know elves normally like greens but-"

Ember had already eaten the food.

Zul'vii lifted a brow and grinned. "Are you his kid?"

Ember mused on the answer for a moment, then froze as the fear rose up in her. Thinking... thinking was bad. Or was it? Perhaps musing on things was not so dangerous, now that Archimonde was somewhat subdued. Still, it was best not to get into the habit. The first word that came out of her mouth was, "No." If she had been thinking more deeply, she would have decided that Illidan's insistence that she was Furion's child had prompted her answer. "Illidan is my uncle."

"Ah, so your parents be Furion and Tyrande? Interesting. Illidan and Furion were twins, you know? Not so surprising that you look like him." Ember tilted her head to the side. She had not been privy to this information. "Why are you looking for him?"

"… Need his help," the violet-haired girl offered after a moment.

"Your parents can't help?"

"NO!" Ember cried angrily, digging her fingers into the blanket she was sitting on. Zul'vii winced. That was her favorite blanket, too… "No! No! They only make things worse! They make it stronger, they make it stronger! Have to find Illidan, he's the only one who makes it go away! He's the only one who helps, only one who sees!" she blurted out, and then she clutched at her head and shrank into herself, breathing hard.

Zul'vii mused for a moment. Then, surprisingly, she did something that no one else in the history of Ember's life had ever done. She asked what the problem was. The troll straightened up, looked directly at the girl, and asked, "You've got something bad in your head, don't you? Well, I have something good in my head, so I can't help you much there… But maybe if you tell me what's wrong, I can figure out what to do with you. Maybe help you a bit, ya? So what is it? What's wrong?"

Ember shivered, her nails causing blood to start flowing beneath her hairline. She lifted her eyes to Zul'vii, and in a weak voice said, "My name is sometimes Archimonde. But that's not right at all."

The troll lifted a brow, and eyed her for many long moments. "No," she said at last. "No, it's not. Your name should be Ember Stormrage, and we are going to have to figure out a way to help her out."

Ember shuddered. Her eyes opened wide as the troll woman reached for her. Her demon's fearful weakness seized her again, and she screamed and clawed her way to a corner of their little cave. Zul'vii winced and nodded. "… hokay… … Ember…" She took in a deep breath and tilted her head to the side. "I will get you to Illidan. I promise. But ya gotta tell me everything I can and can't do, cause we got a long trip ahead of us… kay?"

Ember just quivered, too lost in her own distress.

"Okay?"

"… Okay…" she whispered weakly.

* * *

Ravenholdt Manor

Puma closed her eyes tightly. She was normally so unexpressive that even this small change in appearance spoke volumes on the effort that this was taking her. Master Kang just waited patiently, allowing her to think. The biggest problem that people encountered when trying to communicate with Puma is that it was very difficult for her to pick up learned behavior. When Puma could tie an action to an instinct, she could learn it without ever even thinking. However, the normal social rules by which all sentient beings functioned were much more difficult for her to grasp. In that respect, she might as well have been heavily mentally handicapped. Her superiors certainly treated her as if she was. Teaching Puma a learned behavior required much time, effort, and patience. However, teaching anyone else a learned behavior at such an age would have been impossible. Her ability to learn basic social rules at such a late stage in life was testimony to her intelligence and adaptability.

In any event, Puma was currently trying to process the idea of a spirit. The concept was so foreign to her that it had caused her immense frustration. Puma's world consisted of "kill or be killed" and "eat or be eaten." All of her behaviors and thoughts revolved around those themes. Still, spirituality was something she needed to comprehend. The spirit was an extremely important part of a creature's inner energy. Until she understood it, her abilities would be sorely limited.

She took in a deep, unnecessary breath and then opened her eyes and shook her head quietly. Puma simply could not comprehend. Her scope of experience was too limited. She did not understand a world that involved morals or values. She did not understand a world that involved love or hate. She only understood survival.

Kang sighed and nodded his head, before a thought occurred to him. He looked directly at her, and then attempted to frame what he was going to say in the most basic way possible. "The spirit is the part of you that is not afraid of dying. It is the part of you that could make you give up your life. It is the part of you that makes decisions that are not based on survival. It is the part of me that makes me your friend, even when I gain nothing from it. It is the part of you that can be happy or sad. It is what makes you more than just an animal."

Puma was quiet. _It is the part of you that is not afraid of dying..._ _It is the part of you that could make you give up your life._

"For what?" she asked suddenly. Her voice was whispery and evanescent. Kang blinked. "Give up your life… for what?"

He frowned. "Any reason that would make you give up your life… Unhappiness. Loneliness…"

Puma quite possibly felt those emotions, but she did not even recognize them within herself. When he began rattling off the list of emotional upsets, she shook her head, unable to voice what she desired. The orc mused a moment and then tilted her head to the side.

"Some people are willing to give up their lives for love… That is, for one another."

Puma's head jerked up, and she looked directly at the old orc. Seeing that he had her attention, he tried to elaborate.

"Sometimes, the spirits of two people bond together…Like… symbiotic parasites. I taught you about those, yes? They live off of one another, both benefiting from each other's strength and presence. They help each other survive and protect one another. Their spirits merge. Sometimes, the bond is so strong that a person would rather die than let the creature they protect be killed."

"Why?" she asked.

"Why do you survive, Puma? Why do you fight, and kill, and eat? For what reason?"

She frowned.

"People who would die for someone else… they get to the point where they stop helping their partner in order to survive. Instead, they start surviving to help their partner."

Silence.

"Think of it like this: when and why does an animal stop killing to survive, and instead survive to kill? For what is the purpose of killing in order to survive? You, Puma, kill things in order to survive… And by doing so, you have come to the state where you live simply in order to kill."

Puma's expression was blank. He sighed. Apparently his logic was far too abstract for her to grasp. He was surprised, when she suddenly said,

"I have a spirit."

The old orc blinked, and tilted his head to the side.

"It's what makes me want to kill."

Kang smiled. As small as this achievement seemed, Puma had reached a major milestone.

* * *

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHH!

Review, or I shall not update! YARG!

Old time readers: And now you know why Ketala's heart is beating. Three guesses as to where Puma came from!


	3. I Blame the Stork

Hey Guys! Sorry for the really big wait for this chapter! I had most of it finished a long time ago but then WHAM, BAM, GAHHH, _school_ and... and... CALCULUS! Well exams are really really really really really soon, so everyone wish me well, and one day I'll be writing the stories for the video games you play. Yay! Maybe I can get a job at Blizzard? Nah, there's not enough silly people there.

Suddenly I recall punchcards involving the gnome king and nightelf underwear... Okay, maybe they're silly enough!

Oh! By the way, I just uploaded new art! Including a lovely picture of Puma!

* * *

**_I Blame the Stork. He's Convenient _**

* * *

Naxramas

There was blood on her hands. It was on her blades, and her white plate. It was in her hair, and on her face. Before her lay the dismembered body parts of dozens of helpless humans. Their faces- or what was left of them- displayed various states of panic and terror. There was a literal pool of blood around her, and spilled brains caked one of her legs. Her foot was planted in the skull of a small child.

It's not real. It's just an image. Just an illusion.

She could taste blood in her mouth, and had the distinct notion she'd been drinking it from one of the corpses. Still, she could not be sure. She was clenching her jaws so tightly, and she might have bitten part of her tongue off. It could be the blood from such a wound that she tasted. Still, the connections that her mind was forming between herself and this scene she saw were not at all comforting.

How she longed for Nathanos… For him to hold her and ease her helpless confusion.

Ketala had a small piece of the Lich King encased inside her mind. It was a trade off for having been able to defeat him at an earlier time. Now she wasn't so certain that it had been worth her success. Everywhere she went, the specter of the lich king haunted her with disgusting images and confusing notions. She could not trust a single one of her senses. She was alone, in a fog of illusion and suggestion. How was she supposed to exist in such a state?

Nathanos… Oh Nathanos…. Please find me…

She heard the snarl of an onrushing abomination and she turned to plunge her blade into his gut without thinking. Her blade buried deep into his intestines, but it was not an abomination that she impaled. As she turned to face her opponent, she realized it was a young man she had stabbed. He shuddered and fell backwards, clutching at his waist and trying to hold in his own intestines. Blood spurted forward from his wounds and oozed from his mouth. Her eyes went wide and she took a step towards him, her fingertips glowing with holy energy.

She was too late. She had eviscerated him, and he expired long before she could reach him. Ketala shivered and sank to her knees, her eyes fixed on the boy. He was only a teenager. He was anorexic from malnourishment, and there was a look of pain and terror on his face. His brown hair was disheveled, and his eyes stared out glassily at nothing. His blood joined the pool at her feet.

She had killed an innocent. A boy who might have been approaching her to ask a simple question. A boy who might have been running towards some loved one she could not see through the illusion. Holy energy seethed through her frame, but she could not force the illusions to recede.

The worst part is, Ketala had no idea whether she had slaughtered a boy. She might have just killed an abomination. It was not knowing that haunted her. It was not knowing whether or not she had slaughtered a whole room of children. It was not knowing whether she was awake or asleep. The worst part was not knowing where she was, or what she was doing, or what she had been doing, or what was real, or what was fake, or what exactly the undead had planned for her. The worst part was not knowing anything, and feeling guilty for everything unknown. The worst part was going crazy.

I was wrong. I can't do this. I chose wrong.

Kel'Thuzad… Guardian… Parent… _Daddy!_ _Daddy, save me! Please save me! Oh god, someone please save me! Please end my torment! Please show me a path out of his hell!_

She woke up screaming. The name on her lips was neither Kel'Thuzad's nor Nathanos's. It was "Ner'zhul".

* * *

Naxramas

Kel'Thuzad was laughing. It was not a pleasant laughter. There _was_ mirth in it- Kel'Thuzad was one of the only liches that could feel mirth- but there was also a haughty chill. Still, despite her situation, despite the uncertain future, it made Ketala happy to hear him laugh. It was _his_ laughter. Not the Lich King's. It was one of the only things he had left. It was a rich laughter, and filled with true amusement.

Ketala kept her gaze on him, but her thought did not remain in place. Her thoughts turned inward, to the gentle warmth of her own body heat. _Her_ body heat. Blood flowed through her veins. New life permeated her dead frame. There, within her chest, she could feel the tentative beating of her own heart.

Whenever Nathanos's heart began to beat, it would do so until the moment was over, and then slowly go dormant again. Ketala's heart, on the other hand, had never stopped beating since its reawakening. It was still moving, as if instinctively knowing that something was required of it… and despite the fact that Ketala was long dead, its hesitant beating did, indeed, serve a vital purpose.

Kel'Thuzad finally looked back down at Ketala, his teeth bared in a skeletal grin. Her heartbeat did not waver. She was unafraid. Still his little Ketala.

Her heartbeat had been something of a puzzle for Ketal'Thuzad in Ketala's first few months in Naxramas. It seemed to beat without reason, without purpose, and without need. It defied her death and her place. What's more, Ketala had nurtured it. She had been eating whenever she could find food. She kept herself fairly warm, and took pains to protect her torso whenever she was fighting.

Many times, the lich had considered silencing the wretched organ. However, Ketala's behavior was so bizarre that he had decided to tolerate Ketala's half life, and had instead waited for clues as to what purpose it served.

And now he knew.

The lich reached forward. His long, skeletal fingers wrapped gently around her waist. The curve of his thumb rested flat against her stomach. His cold aura chilled her lukewarm flesh.

Her unborn child kicked out at his hand in distress. It knew that it needed every scrap of warmth it could find.

"How very curious," the lich murmured. "So curious, in fact, that we are actually considering letting you keep it. And yet…" he lifted a hand to her face, and cupped her cheek. "…I wonder why you kept this from your master for so long…?"

Ketala answered without missing a beat: "Defiance. Lack of discipline. Lack of trust. Anger. Foreboding."

"So much like Sylvanis you are," he said with a soft chuckle.

"I am nothing like Sylvanis, Kel'Thuzad," she replied evenly. "My driving forces may be similar, but my actions contrast hers sharply."

He smiled and stroked gently through her air. "You should be more open with your master. Perhaps then he will be more lenient."

Ketala's eyes widened at the implications of his words. Her hands shot up just in time to catch the full blow of Kel'Thuzads underhanded attack. His claw-like fingers stabbed two inches into her abdomen and then halted, held at bay by her iron grip on his wrist. A grin spread over the lich's face, and he leered at her.

"Your loyalties are very split, sweet Ketala," he noted.

Ketala grimaced, trying to ignore the mental screaming of her child. "The sooner Arthas understands that I serve him as a human warrior serves a tyrannical king, the better. I am bound to his service, but I will never emulate his will."

Kel'Thuzad merely smiled, his claws twisting gently in her waist. "But you will, Ketala. One day, you will become just like me. You will emulate his will, and bow to his strength, despite everything you will lose in the process. You will kneel, and submit, and give in. And you will enjoy your rebirth as one of the damned.

"And that is what frightens you, Ketala. The end result of your inevitable fate. That is what haunts you every waking moment. One day, you will lose, and you will willingly sacrifice everything you are to him."

Ketala stared at him quietly a long, long moment. "Yes," she murmured after a long time. And then, quite suddenly and with great conviction, she hissed, "But I am sick of inevitables." She jerked backwards, ignoring her agony as Kel'Thuzads claws ripped through more flesh. She gave him a look so profoundly fierce that it made him smile, and then dropped to her knees and clutched her waist. Immediately she poured healing energy into herself and her child, quickly mending the damage that the lich had done.

Ketala's frustration and helplessness were so beautiful. Inch by inch, her tormented mind neared the precipice of madness. Her doubt consumed her. The spectre in her mind mislead and confused her. She was not holding out well-"

"You've hurt him," she suddenly whispered. Her voice was quiet and surprised. The lich looked down at her, noting the expression of sadness that moved over her face. "His thoughts… They frayed… Fragmented and broken… His life force… You've damaged it…"

He tilted his head to the side, and she looked at him with such an expression of pain and betrayal that he felt it as a brutal stab; even as he delighted that she was falling further from glory.

"You've hurt him… Something I cannot heal," she said quietly.

"Oh? Shall I finish what I began?" he asked with a skeletal grin.

"His name is Vaiden."

"Ketala…"

"He has my eyes. He would have been like me, but controllable… malleable…"

"Another variable. Another stumbling block."

"He was the closest thing you'd ever have to a grandchild."

"Ketala!" she looked directly at him, surprised by the edge to his voice. His eyes burned a dark, deep blue, and they bored into her like blades. "It is no longer enough. It's too late."

"But you love me," she whispered, her lower jaw quivering. "You _love_ me."

"More that you know, Ketala," he admitted quietly. "More than my own existence. But you overestimate love's power. It is not enough. _His_ power over me is greater. I am… sorry." And with that, he simply turned and floated away.

Ketala stared, her entire body starting to ache. Her lungs and heart seized up. Her throat contracted and released, over and over again. Her child cried mentally. Her whole body quivered once. And then she began to tremble and shiver.

Above all else, love was supposed to be infallible. It was sacred, all-powerful, and undefeatable. The greatest good. How could Arthas's will be more powerful than everything she had ever believed in?

It was a moment of the greatest disillusioning.

* * *

**_Two Years Later_**

DUNNN DUNNN DUNNN!

* * *

Theramore

The Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore looked over the _Dancing Heron_ with a practiced eye. There was little he did not miss, from the frayed edges of the sails to the mold growing beneath the stairs, to the slight buckling of the floorboards at the edges of the deck. He scowled in disgust and turned a critical eye on the captain of the ship.

"_Captain_… what exactly _have_ you done by way of maintenance for this ship? At least tell me that someone has been cleaning the head? Or is thatthe smell I detect at the bow?" The man turned a ruddy color and opened his mouth to protest. "Yes. I know you double as a trading ship. The smell I perceive is so powerful that it is entirely suppressing the scent of dead tuna."

"This is my vessel, Admiral-"

"This is a ship of Theramore Isle. You insult our reputation, our standards, and our skill with the abuse you have done onto this carrack. In addition, this vessel does not belong to you, but to the Lady Proudmoore and her fleets. You are merely 'borrowing' it. Such were the terms when you paid for the ship. I will be commandeering it, and you will be refunded half of what you originally paid for it." He turned, ignoring the look of outrage on the man's face, and quietly walked towards the docks.

"Admiral, this is outrageous! This is my ship, I-"

Daelin turned around and eyed the man coldly. The captain immediately silenced under his icy gaze, and then lowered his gaze to the deck of his ship. Satisfied, the Admiral continued his descent to the docks, his personal guards following him down. This month had been a good one. Once the Admiral had backed up his threats about commandeering misused vessels, there had been fewer and fewer ships suffering from disrepair.

Sailors were generally very mindful of their crafts in the first place, and so abused vessels generally belonged to people who had no idea how to properly run a ship. In a few years, such commandeering would become unnecessary- it was only used now in order to weed out inappropriate captains and to protect Theramore's versatile fleet from damage. Wood was a valuable commodity in the Dustwallow Marsh. No vessel could be allowed to rot.

No vessel could be allowed to rot…

The admiral glanced at his reflection in the bay water. The marsh water was surprisingly clear. He could even make out the pallor of his cheeks. The spells that his daughter had placed upon his clothing had kept him from decaying. It was a great boon to him that he remained so intact. As long as he looked human, his men could forget that he was undead. It made it easier for them to obey him. Easier for them to trust him.

He closed his eyes for a moment and then set his shoulders and focused on Theramore tower. He would deliver his report to his daughter early. It was almost noon. Perhaps he could sit down and have a nice luncheon with her. Despite the fact that he did not eat and had almost no sense of taste, Daelin treasured time with Jaina. The sorceress's mindset was so completely and entirely different from his own that the two could not help from clashing-especially about orcs. It was the little things like luncheons that held their tiny family together.

* * *

Ravenholdt

Kang found Puma at the pond. It was her favorite spot on the grounds, and she spent as much of her free time there as she could. She did not particularly like water. Indeed, it appeared that Puma's favorite part of the pond was the mud. Once, when Simone had been out walking through the brush, Puma had coated herself with mud and laid down alongside her rotten log. When the night elf groundskeeper had walked past, Puma had jumped out and scared the woman half to death (as well as stabbed her several times). Simone had taken the hint, and never again considered developing the pond into a flower bed.

Puma was currently sitting in the mud and reading a brand new book he had just given her. He winced slightly but said nothing. He had known that the book would be fated to an early and very dirty demise. Reading had been another thing that had taken Puma ages to learn. Fahrad had been so dismissive of the girl's mental state that Kang hadn't seen any reason to inform the Grand Master Rogue of Puma's literacy. After all, a few secrets gave her an edge, and decreased her chances of being manipulated… and Kang had grown to like his protégé.

The undead girl recognized Kang's soft footsteps, and so she did not look up as he approached. She was too busy laboring through the thousands of words on the pages before her. The book was a collection of nursery rhymes and bed time stories. Although the book had seemed a trivial and affectionate thing to give, it served a very practical purpose. Puma was a complete sociopath, with no ability to differentiate right and wrong. The stories within her book were loaded with simple moral examples. They were easy for Puma to process, and were instrumental in teaching her how to behave properly. They gave her a whirlwind tutorial on how to operate in the real world.

"Puma?" he asked softly. She gave no response. "Puma, Fahrad has decided that you will be sent out on your first mission." After a moment, the girl looked up at him, her meek and terrified face veiled by her unruly hair. He snorted. "Puma, calm." She shifted slightly, her posture straightening a bit, and focused entirely on him. "He wants you to look the part of a human. He'll explain more once you've been cleaned up."

No response.

"Puma, get up, you need a bath." The first part of that command was simple enough. After a moment of contemplation, she stood. Slowly, and with unnatural grace, she walked along her rotten log. She walked to her boots and picked them up. She wiped off her feet on the long grass around the pond. Only after all of this was done did she turn to Kang, and follow him docilely back to the manor. The old orc sighed, once against questioning the wisdom of Fahrad's plans. He truly hoped that whoever Fahrad was pairing Puma up with had the insight necessarily to deal with her.

* * *

Theramore

Daelin had chosen to serve as Jaina's Admiral for many reasons. The first and foremost of these reasons was that he was undead. He had recently made a strong impression upon Theramore's people, and had led them to many naval victories. For this reason, they tolerated him and benefited from his wealth of experience. As an undead, he could not really return to Kul'Tiras and reclaim his title as king. In addition, Stormwind was not likely to welcome him. The next most prominent reason was that Jaina had proved herself to be an apt leader. He was proud of her- despite her association with orcs- and had learned to accept the fact that his daughter was a proud and independent creature with a reasonably good head on her shoulders. She was worth serving. The Admiral might have tried taking the position of leader as Theramore, but doing something of that nature would be foolhardy. Jaina had proven herself to be much more commanding in her control of Theramore than the last time he had seized control, and her people adored her.

She had stood up to him on more than one occasion, and had forced herself past his slightly anti-feminist mindset.

However, Daelin was still Jaina's father. When he came to her quarters, he felt no inclination to knock, and simply opened the door to her rooms. He did not have to worry that the sorceress would be indecent. Jaina's rooms were extensive, and she always dressed in her bedchamber.

Jaina was at once side of her room, looking down at what served as her kitchen table. The table was miraculously free of magical devices and parchments. In fact, Jaina's rooms were starting to look more orderly than they normally did. He attributed this change to whatever factor was also improving her skin pigmentation and her physical aptitude. When he had entered and the door closed behind him, the sorceress immediately spun around to look at him. Her eyes widened and she lowered her hand… and placed it on the shoulder of a small creature beside her.

The Admiral blinked, looking at the creature, and he frowned. It was humanoid, and yet very small. It was a child. The little one had creamy, pale olive skin and a feathery burst of fluffy black hair. Her tiny face was feline, with broad, healthy planes. Her eyes were wide and alert, and colored neon cyan. The child's lips were small but full. Her nose was tiny, but not regressive, and her ears tapered to points. Tiny teeth pressed through her gums, along with two minute tusks. Her neck was slender and supple and her torso was oddly deep and compact. She displayed only some of the baby fat normally found in toddlers. For example: her little arms were skinny, and lean muscle was just visible beneath the surface. The little one was stooped over a piece of paper. She had a crayon in one of her fists, and was scribbling intently all over the sheet. The tip of her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth. The expression of intense concentration on her face was weirdly… familiar.

"What… is… that…?" the Admiral grit out with measured distaste. Jaina took in a slow, deep breath, and tightened her hold on the child.

"This is Thrall's child," she answered quietly. Daelin snorted.

"Are you his nursemaid now? Next you will be his servant! I do not understand you Jaina- you push farther and father into dangerous, repugnant waters!"

The child recoiled and hid half behind Jaina's leg. The yelling had confused and upset her, and so she turned her face half into the sorceress's robes and gave a distressed cry of, "Mamma!"

The Admiral Daelin Proudmoore froze mid facial expression and mid thought. His eyes darted to the small child- to its face- to its cyan eyes.

"Her name is Kallah," Jaina said softly. "We were just about to have lunch. Would you like to join us?"

The Admiral lifted his eyes to Jaina's face, his lips parted. Dumbfounded beyond normal speech functions, he could merely ask, "_Lunch?_"

"Yes. A bit of marinated Marlin, a salad, some tea… The maid just brought it up." The woman turned, heading a few feet over to Kallah's drawing table and instructing the little girl to clean up her mess. The Admiral came up behind her, and she turned to face his darkened visage with calm poise. "Yelling will not change what has happened, and will not make me ashamed. If you are going to talk, do so calmly."

"_CALMLY?_" he hissed, on the verge of exploding. And then, before he started sounding like a parrot, he continued. "How could you degrade yourself so utterly… and yet be unashamed? Why? Why- How-?" Words were beginning to fail him. "Why an _orc_?"

Jaina just sat down beside Kallah and began pouring tea. "It was not something I did lightly. Thrall and I have been friends for quite some time."

The Admiral rushed up to her, grabbing the armrests of her chair and glaring at her, his face flushed (It couldn't rightly be red- he had no warmth or bloodflow) with anger. "This is an orc we are talking about, Jaina! An _ORC_!"

"Black hair, blue eyes, noble and honorable disposition?" she asked, leaning back in her chair.

"By the Light, Jaina, you act as if this were a human you were enamored with! A paladin!"

The sorceress's eyes narrowed, and she returned the steely-eyed glare of her father. "A paladin? You insult him, father. The last paladin I was enamored with betrayed his entire species and joined the Scourge. His invasion was responsible for your reanimation and my kidnapping. _And_, if you remember, said orc was the one who rescued me from that kidnapping."

"One good deed is not the grounds for such an abominable relationship!"

"It is not simply one good deed, Admiral!" If he had not been so angry, her formality would have stung him deeply. "There are _reasons_ why I trust the orc Warchief so completely! Namely because I know him, and am friends with him personally!"

"Yes, and it appears there are other "reasons" as well! Do you want to be called the whore of an orc by the leaders in Stormwind?" Jaina's cyan eyes narrowed.

"Silence your tongue, Daelin Proudmoore. I know full well what the ambassadors from Stormwind think of me, and _you_ know full well that I am nothing of the sort. Peace with the orcs can only benefit us- even you have come to accept that."

"He is a pig, Jaina. Humans do not mate with pigs."

At this the Lady Proudmoore kicked her chair backwards and stood up to her full diminutive height, staring at her father with rage. "How _dare_ you? This from the man who has slept with every woman within a hundred miles of Kul'Tiras!"

He backhanded her full across the face. She did not look at him in shock; she didn't even miss a beat. Instead she turned around and slapped him right back, earthen energy streaming through her arm and putting far more force behind the blow than she could otherwise muster. The man staggered backwards, grabbing at his cheek, and looked at her in evident surprise.

"How _dare_ you insinuate such things? I call Thrall my friend because I respect him. He is noble, just, honest, and acts with good conscience in all matters. He is intelligent, proud, honorable, and selfless! I have seen Thrall lead charges to save battalions of human warriors. He seeks a life for his people untainted by evil and demonic magics! He seeks a peace between our people, undefiled by righteous hatred and blind zeal! He is a brilliant tactician, a charismatic speaker, an idealist, altruistic, and above all else, _open minded!_ He is quite arguably one of the greatest leaders to ever live, and has never once perceived humans as anything other than equals! And don't you _DARE_ insinuate there is anything even remotely bestial about the relationship between us!"

She advanced a step on the Admiral, her eyes blazing with inner strength and fury. It was one of the few times when Jaina Proudmoore looked completely and entirely imposing, and the person on the receiving end of her anger was usually looking for some place to run.

"When humans were invading his borders and attacking his people at every turn, he took me in and patiently looked over an endless sheaf of treaties and other legal documents, helping me find the loopholes to hold this peace together! When you took over my fleets and used them to attack Orgrimmar, he abided by my single request that he harm none of my people- DESPITE the fact that you were forcing those people to attack him!

"When my fleets were busy blockading undead in northern Azeroth, he sent down Troll schooners to help keep my waters free of pirates! _THAT_ is what a good and honorable person does! And what have you done to prove your worth? You invaded my kingdom, usurped my rule, took over my fleets, and used them to launch attacks at my closest friend, all while ignoring and yelling at me for making decisions you did not understand! Cease patronizing me! Do not blame me for seeing something in him that you are far too blind to perceive!"

She whirled and pointed a finger at the little olive-skinned girl (who was staring at her mother in surprise, a fork half way to her mouth, with her eyes as big as dinner plates).

"That is your granddaughter! My daughter. _HIS_ daughter! Her very existence is kept the most closely guarded secret, but out of practicality- not shame! I love her. I adore her. And she is your granddaughter. If you harm a single hair upon her head, I will have you guillotined and blown apart by holy energies. IS THAT CLEAR?"

The Admiral could only stare at her. His rage had no coherent form, and his face displayed astonishment at the sheer force of Jaina's response. Tendrils of icy magic could be seen whirling around her frame. She had projected herself with such great conviction that he could not immediately foster an argument- only stare as she seated herself and began distributing part of her lunch to Kallah.

The little girl was so distressed she dropped her food and rushed to her mother's lap, clinging to her and shivering. Kallah's voice… It was just like Jaina's when she was a little girl. High and slightly bubbly. Just a baby's voice. But also stubborn and inquisitive with every little word. A thousand confused emotions suddenly dug their greedy talons into the undead admiral's heart. He shuddered, and then whirled around and stormed out of the room. He could not tell whether his daughter was insane, mislead, manipulated or otherwise. His mind was raging in all directions…

And the foreign concept of doubt was rearing its ugly head.

Jaina watched him go, wondering what he would do. Admiral Daelin Proudmoore was one of the single most vociferous anti-horde racists on the entire planet, and she was not certain she could rely on family loyalties to protect her or Kallah from him. Yet she had not lied, nor had she stopped him from leaving. In a way, she desperately wanted to be able to trust him. He was the only family she had.

Well, save for Khalla. She reassured her daughter and then sat the tiny child back on her chair.

* * *

Two Years Earlier, Silithus

Orc War Camp

It was strange to see Thrall suited up in Orgrim's black full plate and yet lacking the deceased warchief's favored weapon. A great mace was slung over Thrall's back, but it hardly measured up to the Doomhammer's glory. It occurred to Jaina that if even _she_ was keenly reminded of the hammer's loss, Thrall must have been reminded of its absence every waking moment.

Not for the first time, Jaina Proudmoore wished she could give the magnificent weapon back without incident. Unfortunatly, doing so would be like spitting in the orc chieftain's face. Thrall had _given_ her the Doomhammer. He had given her the symbol of the orcish horde, and he had done so for a very calculated reason.

Thrall had come to Jaina's aid against the Lich King. When Arthas had invaded Theramore, the undead prince had taken Jaina captive. Thrall had immediately sent his people to Northrend The orc had joined with humans and undead in a full out attack on Icecrown. The warchief had rescued her in mind, spirit, and body, and for the first time since Hyjal, the moral races had stood united.

Only… Things went wrong. The orcs did not see the conflict in Northrend as an immediately pressing issue. While they suffered in Silithus, Blackrock, and the Barrens, it appeared that they were in Icecrown fighting undead for a primarily human war. Stormwind had been sluggish to take up arms alongside orcs. Infighting started to occur.

Thrall had been forced to pull out. He had given Jaina his prized warhammer as a promise that his people would one day return to Northrend to complete what they had started. Jaina could not give the weapon back. It was a symbol of the very biracial alliance she so fought for. It was also some of the only proof she had that the orcs would honor their alliance with Theramore.

Thrall noticed Lady Proudmoore's musing and glanced at her inquisitively. "What are you thinking about?"

Jaina blinked and shook her head. "Nothing of immediate importance," she answered. The orc lifted a brow and then smiled, gesturing out his tent door at the barren desert beyond.

"It is strange to say it… But I am glad for Silithus."

The sorceress nodded and looked out across the crystalline wasteland.

"It's giving our people some practice at playing nice. In addition, the Cenarion Circle is intimately involved, and Stormwind is just as eager to fight as Orggrimar."

Thrall nodded. "It's also nice that we have a teleportation specialized archmage with us. We'd never be able to coordinate this war _and_ manage affairs at home without her."

"Oh, _that's _ all I have to do? Well, in that case, I'll call off the griffon strike scheduled for today."

The orc rolled his eyes. "No of course not, Jaina. You're also here to conjure food and water."

The woman laughed and came up beside her orcish counterpart. The orc was leaning over the table, his palms flat against its surface He was looking over several maps of Silithus and trying to coordinate troop placement. Thrall was a better ground tactician than Jaina, but not by much. The sorceress shifted several pawns around the map, and the orc nodded at her silent reasoning.

"Alright… As soon as our troops are in place, we'll be as ready as we'll ever get."

She nodded and looked at him. "Despite all our preparations, things will get ugly long before they get better."

"We're in for the long haul this time, Lady Proudmoore, he affirmed, turning his head to look at her. "This will not be as it was in Northrend."

The small human smiled. "I never expected it would be, Warchief."

He nodded.

There was an awkward silence. It sprung seemingly out of nowhere, and gave both leaders ample time to realize how very close they were to one another.

… He… he could smell her vividly, as if his olfactory organs had been waiting anxiously for any hint of her delicate scent. A whiff of dust and lilacs assaulted his sensibilities, and he stiffened slightly.

Jaina blushed and lowered her eyes, equally aware of his proximity. She attempted to break the silence by inquiring, "Are those the scouting reports concerning the Twilight Hammer?" and reaching forward for a ream of papers. He moved to grab the same parchments in order that he might pass them to her, and so her hand ended up atop his.

Both leaders tensed considerably.

It wasn't proper. It wasn't practical. They were in the middle of his tent, where at any time a scout might rush in to deliver the latest report. Still, Thrall shuddered inwardly. She was so very close to him. Too close. His mind was shooting out in all directions, and his common sense was suddenly melting out from underneath him. Her hand was soft against his. Her breathe caused his skin to prickle, and her smell flooded his senses. He could almost taste her.

Since that day, several long months ago- since the very moment she first kissed him, a terrible pining had grown within him. Her proximity had been having a steadily worsening effect on him. While Vo'jin and Cairne were around, it was easy enough to ignore, but at the moment it was on the verge of driving him mad. It was like an omnipresent itch that could not be scratched- an insatiable hunger- an annoyance that could never be placated.

And yet, he had to ignore it. Befriending the Lady Proudmoore had put a great enough strain on their positions. If the two were to become any closer, Jaina might just be branded as a traitor to the Alliance, and the peace they had slaved over would be obliterated. He had to ignore it…but this obsession with her presence was _killing_ him.

"Thrall… This isn't working…" the orc blinked and focused on what the sorceress was saying. He took in a deep breath and nodded, moving to stand up straight and pull his hand from under hers. The Lady's fingers suddenly tightened around his and he halted, his gaze immediately locking with hers. Jaina looked at him a long moment and then her gaze fell to his hand. Slowly, delicately, she rubbed her fingers over the side of his hand between his thumb and the tip of his forefinger.

Thrall's eyes closed and he lowered his head slightly. His fingers twitched lightly under her touch, and an expression both of relaxation and pleasure touched his face.

"Jaina…" he murmured. He could say nothing more. The integral ache for her presence had overwhelmed him. He certainly could not reprimand or remind her, could not insist that they remain separate- not when he so evidently enjoyed her touch.

She carefully turned his hand over, and caressed over his roughened palm and fingers. "I know," she said after a long time. "It's improper and impractical. It will cause political scandals. Humans will mistrust me. Orcs will second guess you. Peace will be at risk." His dark blue eyes opened to slits and he looked at her quietly. "But the fact remains that you are very strongly attracted to me." Thrall's eyes widened at this blunt assertion, and he looked at Jaina in surprise. She laughed and shook her head. "Don't give me that look. If you could do so, you would currently be purring. You had the same expression on your face as Snowsong does when she's getting her tummy rubbed."

His surprised expression changed to amusement, and his fingers quickly closed around the sorceress's. With a tenderness unheard of in his species, he brushed his fingers over the human's tiny palm and fingers. An electric thrill shot up her spine, and she shuddered.

"And… the fact remains…"she said faintly, "That I am very strongly attracted to you."

Half of his mind knew that he was being foolish. It knew that he was making the temptation worse, and it thoroughly chewed him out for his reckless and unacceptable behavior. On the other hand, half of his mind was doing back flips, utterly ecstatic at her reaction to his caress. And her words…

She found him attractive? It was logical that she would have to find him attractive- after all, she had once kissed him. But as Jaina had said herself, humans found orcs to be "Green, muscle-bound, porcine, primitive, brutish-looking, loud, stinky, and hairy." True, Jaina had immediately announced that she did not find him to be ugly… And that respect often played a large role in how people saw one another… But still… Thrall and Jaina could not be any more diametrically opposed when it came to their physical attributes. It was hard to see how she could find him attractive.

He neglected to think about the inverse, the fact that he found her appealing. To orcs, humans werenaked monkeys with huge noses, squashed little mouth, entirely unimpressive and impractical physiques, and the pigmentation of cave fish. And yet Thrall found Jaina beautiful.

The Lady Proudmoore shivered under Thrall's continuing caresses, despite the orc warchief's smug expression. "And of course, we are forced to be in constant contact with one another in order to coordinate peace," she managed.

"Indeed," the orc agreed, his voice deep and resonant. "It would appear that we have a conundrum." He increased the range of his attentions, stroking over her wrist and lightly down the length of her forearm, further and further with each caress. "Does the lady have any suggestions on how we might deal with this perplexing issue?"

"Well, it would appear that despite our best efforts to the contrary," she began, and she lifted a hand and gently stroked down his arm, from the edge of his shoulder pauldrons to his hand, "we are actually making _more_ of a scene trying _not_ to fall in love."

He quivered and gently rubbed over her elbow with his thumb. The gesture was very tender and sensual in nature, and the sorceress took in a quick breath. "Thrall, if you continue doing that, I am going to kiss you."

The orc halted immediately and looked up at her, confusion and indecision written on his face. It was extremely painful to stop… to stand there so close to her and refuse everything his body was telling him. It was worse because he had no heart-felt reason why he should deny his instincts. He was not angry at her. He did not hate her. He did not have any reason-

No, he _loved_ her…He loved her, and only his concern and his sense of honor were keeping him from sweeping her off her feet and pressing his mouth full force to her own. Only because he was Thrall- and Thrall was noble and intelligent- did he hold himself back.

Jaina swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment, before looking up at him. She extracted her arm from his grip, and then lifted her hands to his face and cupped his cheeks. "I love you. That fact will never be found acceptable by my people, nor will denying it keep all sorts of insane rumors from spreading. I love you. The sound of your voice gives me a strange breed of peace. Your touch gives me strength. The scholar in you appeals to the scholar in me. I want very little more, at the moment, than for you to hold me. And if we decide that this extra risk is too much to burden our war for peace with… Then it will eat at me forever."

The orc stared at her for a long, long moment, his brows furrowing and mouth tightening. After a pause, he closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, murmured in orcish, "Spirits help me…" and then promptly hoisted her into the air. She kissed him first- a deep, fierce, passionate kiss. With all caution scattered to the winds, he kissed her back.

She tasted like peppermint. His hands rubbed over her back and sides while the bulk of his arms held her crushingly against him. Her mouth explored his, her fingers stroking over his throat and through his hair.

* * *

Present, Silithus Desert

Ahn'Qiraj

"And he hypothesized that, in fact, light could not look from anything alongside it because no material being could ever travel at the speed of light!"

"Was he right?"

"Who knows? Have _you_ ever gone the speed of light? Predicting that something's impossible when it would be almost impossible to do if it weren't impossible is a great idea. The odds that you're going to be disproved any time soon are exceptionally low. In fact, your prediction discourages other from trying to disprove you!"

The Ranger listened to his two companions speak. He didn't bother trying to tell the necromancer to be quiet. It would only upset him and cause him to yell. Instead he leaned against the wall of the ruins and kept his keen eyes trained on the outside environment. If any enemies approached them, they would be ready.

He was somewhat pleased to note that the necromancer was learning to talk in a quieter tone of voice. Now, even when he was excited, he wasn't nearly as loud as he had been in the past.

"I do suppose you're right," Ras mused, stroking his chin. "It makes one wonder what great assumptions people hold about the universe might also be wrong."

"The world is round." Ras blinked, and eyed the old man.

"What?" the necromancer asked indignantly. "My goodness, you lived in Dalaran! The city is located right on Lordamere lake! Haven't you ever noticed that when a ship reaches the horizon, it appears to sink _down_ below it?"

The ex lich mused and realized that the old man was quite right.

The necromancer was halfway into a rant about horizons when Nathanos, their ranger, stiffened. "Ras, we need silence." Ras grimaced, realizing he was going to miss all of the difficult to understand evidence that the necromancer had to offer that proved the roundness of the world. Still, there was only one way to get the old man to be quiet once he had started on a rant. Energy spurted forward from Ras's fingertips, and alighted gently upon the old man. Immediately the necromancer came under the effect of a powerful silence spell. Somehow blissfully ignorant of the fact that he was mute, the old man continued to talk silently. Not for the first time, Ras wished he could read lips. Once you got past the eccentricity and total lack of sanity, the necromancer was fairly interesting to listen to.

Nathanos watched silently as two giant insects moved through the ruins below them. He remained poised and silent until they had moved entirely out of reach, and then went out to scout the area. He returned several moments later, convinced that all potential enemies had moved out of earshot. Ras lifted his silence spell, hoping to catch the tail end of the necromancer's rant. Nathanos merely settled down again, and went back to watching.

Such was life in the ruins of Ahn'Quiraj. Or, more specifically, the life of a bunch of insect assassinating misfits in the ruins of Ahn'Quiraj.

* * *

Yarg! 


	4. To Kill or Not To Kill

Ee! Pirates 3! Shrek 3! Spiderman 3! And none of them belong to me!

But Starcraft II is in development! Starcraft II! Starcraft II... I am happy... Why aren't you? Starcraft II, Starcraft II, I am happy, aren't you, too?

In other news, it appears that both Kael and Illidan actually die in The Burning Crusade. Kael's killed by random idiots with swords, and Illidan's killed by Maiev.

I might just kill someone to release frustration! Poor Kael! He was just a good character! In fact, this is one of his famous quotes, a mantra by which one of my favorite RP characters lives: "In times like these all one can do is eat and enjoy pie. Pie is our Salvation men!" Poor Illidan! To survive Arthas only to be killed by Maiev! It's so wrong!

GAHHH!

I was surprized no one commented on the oil pastel of Jaina and Thrall kissing. Mustn't have been that good. Oh well; I dedicate this chapter to Fluttercannon, who got me off my rear, and Arallion, who kept me off of it.

* * *

_**To Kill Or Not To Kill! That Is the Queston!**_

* * *

Silithus  
Ras Frostwhisper

Two and a half years since we first arrived, and here we are, still in the Silithus Desert. Two years. Six months. Four days. I have counted the days. The hours are a bit harder to gauge, so I won't guess at those. Two years, six months, and four days we have been here, and still Nathanos conspires to ensure we stay longer. He does it subconsciously, I think, without ever stopping to consider the true implications of his actions. Almost two years ago, to the day, we wandered into a Horde warcamp just outside of Ahn'Qiraj. There, we found Horde and Alliance fighting side by side against the insectoid monstrosities located therein. The battles were long, fierce, and bloody. The going was slow.

The combined forces of the Horde and Alliance used small specialized bands of adventurers to make their gains against the Silithids and their foul masters. That's where we got ensnared. By many things.

The first quandary we faced was that the Horde and Alliance forces truly needed us. We could assist them in countless endeavors, from the most mundane to the most profound. For example, very few of Azeroth's inhabitants can speak both common and orcish. Between the three of _our_ little group, we can speak almost every language of this world. This makes us exceptionally valuable for coordinating multiracial forces. Not surprisingly, we were also very valuable for our combat abilities.

The second conundrum was that we really had no means of transportation back to the Undercity. It would take months of travel just to reach Ratchet, and even longer to sail past the Maelstrom to reach Booty Bay. After that, we would have to travel the whole length and breadth of Azeroth to finally return to the Plaguelands. It would, of course, be possible to take a Zeppelin from Orgrimmar directly to the Undercity, but Zeppelins weren't the most reliable form of ocean-crossing transportation. We had no currency of any kind, and no means to navigate Silithus.

The third and final ensnarement was Nathanos himself. Six months out in the desert was not good for his convictions. When we left Scholomance, he was prepared to rip apart the whole world in search of Ketala Truae. Now he seems almost… What is the word? I cannot adequately describe his demeanor, for it is one of utmost peculiarity. The closest I can come to naming the state that plagues him is "despairing" or "apathetic."

When we first began helping the warriors against Ahn'Qiraj, it was for the funds necessary for a wyvern flight to Orgrimmar. Then it became a reluctance to leave. I think he does not want to face what he will find in the Plaguelands. I think his intent is to remain here and drown out all memories of her. It is how he copes with things. When things pain him, he pushes them away until they mean nothing to him.

In his mind, he had already failed. After six months, there was nothing left to do. It was too late to do anything meaningful. Too late to help Ketala. Too late to do anything relevant to save her. If she had not escaped her predicament on her own by then, then it was too late to do anything. Perhaps he was afraid of her reaction to the fact that he had failed- that he had let her down. Perhaps he had simply convinced himself not to care about what became of her. He had probably rethought his path, but by then six months had become a year, or two years, or two years and a half, and the gap of time between him and reality had grown tremendously.

Only yesterday it occurred to me that I am victim to the same emotions. I came to see that I have remained with him and this insane necromancer, living out this militant life in Silithus, to escape my own fears. I realized that I don't want to know what became of her. Deep inside, I wish she had simply dropped off the side of the earth, and Arthas and Kel'Thuzad had fallen with her. I wish I never had to think about her or Alanna again. I want to start anew in this place, and slaughter monsters until one finally kills me. Deep inside, I've already given up. I do not believe we are ever going back to the Plaguelands. I follow this tortured ranger because I know he is too scarred by unlife to deal with his own emotions- too immature to return. And if _he_ doesn't deal with them, I will not have to, either.

That is the saddest part… That we willingly and knowingly commit ourselves to do… nothing.

I sit and I huddle in my robes, trying to maintain my own body warmth. The desert is cold at night- even within these sheltered ruins- and there is nothing to build a fire with but the scattered bodies of a thousand overlarge beetles. The necromancer is fast asleep, his thumb in his mouth. I sometimes ponder that the reason we have not killed him yet is because of his utterly childish mannerisms. There is something innocent within his twisted soul. Maybe he reminds us of Ketala. Or ourselves.

Even Nathanos is resting. I am not certain if he sleeps, but his eyes are closed and his composure is relaxed. Every once in awhile he twitches at some distant sound. Sometimes people get that way- where they can stand watch in their sleep, fall asleep at a moment's notice, and wake at the slightest noise.

It's late. I should probably get some sleep. The Dreadmist spiders that Nathanos keeps as pets have already drifted off to agitated slumber. My dreams will not be pleasant- they never are- but I am human again, and I need my rest.

Human again…

Nathanos jerks. He cringes and twists and then grabs at his chest, his eyes opening wide. He doubles over as if in pain and clutches himself, breathing heavily. I blink and tilt my head to the side. How odd… It appears that even Nathanos can dream. I had though that the undead were beyond such things. From the way he is shuddering, he must have dreamt something dreadful. I am sitting slightly to the side of him. It does not appear he knows I am awake.

To my amazement, his shuddering becomes more pronounced, more definite. His countenance draws with further pain. After a moment he moves his arms, and sinks his face into his hands. Each shudder is now a singular rippling along his frame.

Only after a long time does it occur to me that he is crying.

* * *

Teldrassil

Malfurion took in a slow breath and then let it go in a sigh.

His beard was not groomed. His hair was a messy tangle. There were dark circles under his silver eyes, and he had lost a good ten or twenty pounds- maybe more. He held himself with the posture of someone who was ill and waiting for a miraculous cure to show up out of nowhere.

When Ember had disappeared from their home, it had not taken that great a mental leap to realize where she would go. All the reports he had gathered indicated that Ember had taken off towards Felwood. She had been trying to get back to Illidan.

What Ember had not known was that Illidan and his followers had left several months previously. They had given no word of their departure. One day they had simply vanished. Furion had not been surprised. Illidan was a bit rash and impulsive, to say the least, and the feud between them might have caused his violet-haired twin to move as far away as nightelfinly possible.

However, when Furion and Tyrande had arrived at Illidan's old camp in search of their daughter, they had found no sign of her. The only clue they found that she had even reached the deserted camp were the hippogriff prints in the ground. Hunters had tracked the prints to a nearby cave where they had found the remains of a campfire, a satyr polymorphed into a toad, and some discarded animal bones. The cave had been deserted for a few days, and there was no indication of which way Ember had gone after that. The trees and wildlife in the area were extremely unhelpful. It had taken Furion months to coax some of the nearby trees to cooperate with him, and by then it was too late to determine Ember's exact whereabouts. All the trees could tell him was that Ember had gone south.

Why Ember would go south was a mystery to Furion.

The archdruid sighed and looked over at his beloved wife. She was poring over reports coming up from the Silithus desert, her eyes flicking over the pages with rapt attention. Admittedly, Furion should have been the one looking over those reports. The Cenarion Circle was deeply entwined with the going-ons in Silithus, and he had a duty to the fight there. Perhaps Tyrande merely understood that she had to keep her composure and inner strength in light of her daughter's absence. If she were to allow her worry to consume her, she would be distracted, and unable to perform all her duties as leader. Tyrande had a fierce warrior's spirit. She could not allow Ember's disappearance to dishearten her.

Furion smiled at these thoughts. He looked on her with admiration, and quietly forgave her for her lack of superfluous emotion. Her strength was something he greatly admired.

"You're worrying about Ember again," she murmured, turning over a leaf of the reports.

"I am," he admitted, softly.

"It wasn't your fault, Furion. You must cease taking the blame for all of this."

He winced, and looked quietly at one of the walls of his home. "I am to blame for some of it. I failed to see what she needed. I failed to help her, and to protect her. I failed to be a father to her. I was not here in her first years of life-"

"That was not your failing. You owed that to Ysera."

"Even so, Tyrande, I should have been able to do more for her. In the end, all I did was give her a more concrete reason to flee."

"You should spend your time with the child you do have, rather than worrying about the one whom you have no control over."

He sighed. "How can you be so calm? She could be dead for all you know."

"She isn't."

"How can you know that, Tyrande? And how can you not worry that she soon will be?"

"Furion, you still haven't figured out why she'd go south. That's something that was evident immediately to me upon her disappearance."

He blinked and sat up straighter, his eyes focusing on Tyrande, trying to understand her motives for telling him this only now.

"Ember can't stay in Night Elf lands or you'll find her and restrain her. She has a distinct destination. She cannot risk you stopping her before she reaches it."

"And where is that?"

"Ratchet. Or Orgrimmar. A ship or zeppelin. Azeroth."

"Azeroth? Why would Ember go there? She has never been to those lands- has no connection to them, or reason-"

"The Blasted Lands." Furion frowned and stiffened, not liking where this was going.

"… The Blasted Lands…?"

Tyrande nodded. "The Blasted Lands. The Dark Portal. Outland."

"… Illidan," Furion murmured. "She could not locate him at his camp. It would make sense to travel to Outland. However, I fail to see how Ember could know about Outland. How would she even know that there is a Dark Portal in the Blasted Lands?"

"She has a demon residing in her mind, Furion. Eventually, she will give in and listen to what it tells her. And when it says that the only way to get to her Uncle Illidan is through a portal on the other side of the world, she will attempt to reach it."

"And yet you say all of this with a straight face, as if it didn't concern you at all," Furion murmured, staring at his mate. "Why?"

"Do you remember the toad we found in the cave Ember had camped in?"

"…Zenn Foulhoof. A Satyr who had been permanently turned into a toad. Yes, I remember. Tyrande, what does that have to do with-"

"The toad belonged to one Zul'vii."

Furion fell silent.

"That was her message. Her sign that illustrated "I've found this child, and she is safe."

"Why would she not return Ember to us?" the druid murmured.

"The only alternative to her bringing Ember back to us… Is bringing her to Illidan," Tyrande said softly. Furion winced and nodded. Then he blinked, and stood, his gaze focused entirely on the face of his mate.

"… Why have you only mentioned this now? Two years later? When you know that the troll girl must have already reached the portal? Why have you let me flounder after her for _two years?_ Why have _you_ not searched for her?"

Tyrande paused in skimming through her reports, and locked gazes with the distressed archdruid. She was silent a long moment before speaking. "Because I think Elune intended it. I think Mahi intended it."

"For what reason?" he asked, astonished.

"I think Ember is the goddess's gift to him for everything he had suffered."

"_He_ has suffered?"

"Yes. Illidan has done much evil in his life. Almost all of it was out of a desire to do good. And he was right, in Moonglade, when you tried to blame him for corrupting Ember. He was right. He returned me to you. He returned Ember to you. He promised not to threaten our people, and has tried again and again to make reparations- even for things he feels were not his fault. I think Ember was Elune's gift to him. The consolation, if you will, for all he will never have."

"Tyrande, that is absurd! The child is merely misled by demonic forces! If she gets to Illidan-"

"Then what?" Tyrande demanded. "Then he will corrupt her with more demonic energies and the forces of magic and chaos? Is that what he did last time he had her in his care?" Furion choked off on his response. Tyrande snorted and then continued, "I do not have the power to help her. And neither, I think, do you. But somehow, Illidan has left such a lasting imprint on her that she finds it vital to return to him."

"Tyrande…"

"If you cannot think of her as a gift, then think of her as his penance. His means of setting things right. I believe Illidan can help that child- whether he knows it or not. We can't."

"Tyrande, how can you so willingly give her up? Throwing her aside as if she were not your child? She is your _daughter_!"

"No, Furion. She isn't."

He blinked, his eyes widening.

"She never was. I just carried her for awhile. And acted as her surrogate parent after that."

"How can you say that?" he whispered weakly.

Tyrande looked directly at Furion. In her eyes there was both resolve and sadness. "Ember was wholly Archimonde's- even from the beginning. From birth- from the womb- from her very conception. If the alternative is that she becomes wholly Illidan's, then I am not one to complain. He may be a chaotic and twisted being, but he is one with a very good heart." She looked down again.

Furion stared at her for a long, long moment. Then he stood up, turned around, and exited their home.

* * *

Stranglethorn Vale

"Hokay, what did I tell you about bothering the Vile Fins?"

"Murlocs are people, too?"

"And?"

"And I shouldn't gut them and string their innards between conch shells to make necklaces for crocolisks?"

"And?"

"Throwing monkey poo at them is not funny?"

"No, no, the other thing."

"Massive hordes of tiny people can be frightening when armed with spears and nets?"

"Yeah, that one."

"I'm sorry."

"Well, you are just lucky that the situation only turned out so bad," Zul'vii allowed, somewhat pacified by Ember's apologetic tone. The half troll was currently suspended by her ankles over a boiling cauldron of fish heads and green ooze. "They could have rubbed caviar on us again."

Ember made a face from where Vile Fin murlocs were stuffing carrots and lettuce into her bonds. Caviar smelled bad, tasted funny, and felt gross. Several days after her last coating in caviar, Ember had smelled so terribly of spoiled fish that she was attracting every predatory animal within five miles. Due to this, Zul'vii had been forced to give her a bath- with soap and everything. Ember hated baths.

"You know, Ember, I'm starting to see a pattern here. Every time we start making good progress, you attack something that tries to eat us. Think it might be Archimonde riling you up to impede our progress?"

"I'm not sure. Before I left Teldrassil, it seemed like he wanted me to get to Outland. Now… not so much."

"Well then, he's either stroking my ego, or he just didn't expect me. We should take that as a good sign."

"So you're not mad at me?"

"Of course I'm mad at you. I'm going to tickle you for a good four hours once we're done, just to show how much spite I have for you."

Ember looked utterly stricken and Zul'vii laughed. She waiting until most of the murlocs were off gathering more wood, and then breathed in deeply. Her hands were tied behind her back… So doing a vertical curl up was going to be more difficult than normal. With an effort of will (and thigh muscles of steel), she bent her knees, pulling herself up towards her ankle bonds. With a second effort of will (and abdominal muscles of steel), she curled her upper body up so that her face was level with her feet. After nudging her boots with her face for a moment, she located the dagger (which was, of course, made of steel) that she'd hidden in the right shoe.

Zul'vii delicately slipped one of her tusks under the dagger hilt, and clamped her teeth firmly down upon its handle. Her stomach and thigh muscles trembled and burned with effort. She took in a deep breath, and then extracted the dagger from her boot, her jaws clenched tightly over the leather hilt of the blade. Now came the trickiest part. With her leg and abdominal muscles already strained, she pulled her bound hands up to the level of her feet, and then set the blade against those bonds. It wouldn't do to cut her feet loose if her hands were bound. She'd just fall into the boiling cauldron below.

The Vile Fins were a bit confused by all of this. At first, they weren't even sure where Zul'vii had gone. After a bit, the brightest shamans among them had looked up to where her feet had been bound, and found her there curled under her branch. While they were busy trying to figure out how or why she had pulled herself up to the branch, the half troll slit her hands free.

Zul'vii grinned. She flexed her hands and then grabbed the branch she was tied to. Her burning stomach and leg muscles relaxed, and she sawed her feet loose. Once this was done, she pulled herself onto the thick branch and tried to relax. It took the murlocs a few minutes to start throwing javelins at her, and by then she was ready to move again. The half troll sighed, took in a deep breath, and then rolled off the side of the branch. She landed next to the boiling cauldron, knocked the cauldron over, and grabbed a spear from a startled guard.

Three impaled, four bludgeoned, and two boiled murlocs later, Zul'vii had made her way to Ember and was untying the little girl. A few fish-men decided that Zul'vii couldn't possibly be that great of a threat with her back turned and her focus on Ember's ropes. These murlocs came to regret their decision when a freed Ember had pounced upon them and made avid use of Tyrande's stolen warglaive.

All in all, the, murlocs didn't have it so bad. Zul'vii could have easily allowed Ember to rip apart the entire clan. As it was, the half troll restrained Ember, and a dozen or so fish men escaped into the Stranglethorn waters. When Zul'vii was certain that Ember had calmed, she released the little girl, and set about to finding the duo's gear. The two then stripped the murloc camp of anything valuable, and then set off once more into the depths of the vale.

And while they walked, Zul'vii thought. She didn't think about Illidan, or Ember, or how long their journey was taking. She didn't worry about Furion, or her clan, or Vol'jin, or demonic invasions. No… Zul'vii was occupied with a far more perplexing conundrum.

For you see, Zul'vii had never found out why the murlocs always attempted to cook them before eating them. Eventually she attributed it to them finding land-food unsanitary. After all, how could creatures who bathed so infrequently be clean enough to eat without proper culinary preparation?

After a bit, Zul'vii picked up Ember and sat the girl on her shoulders. The child smiled and clung to her hair in painful and unnecessary ways, but she ignored it. Ember wasn't really that bad once you got past the sadistic, psychopathic, manic portion of her personality.

In fact, she really did remind the half-troll of Illidan.

* * *

Theramore

Kallah Proudmoore was not afraid of the dark. There were several reasons for this. First of all, orcs had better night vision than humans. In addition, Kallah got to leave Jaina's quarters at night. Her mother would take her down to the castle gardens to play. To Kallah, night was a time of wonder and exploration. She had absolutely no fear of it whatsoever.

The little girl was wrapped up in a tiny traveling cloak. In the off chance that someone was up and about, they would not immediately notice her orcish features. Kallah took one look back at her mother, and then disappeared off into a maze of trees and plants. There was a Koi pond in the center of the garden, with which Kallah was particularly enamored. Eventually she turned up at the pond's grassy banks, and crouched down to watch the water more intently.

There was something about water that Kallah loved. About its glassy face and its mysterious depths. About how it clung to her fingers in tiny beads, and yet escaped in all directions when she tried to pick it up. There was something about this pond that attracted her. Something about the brightly colored fish meandering around within it. Something about the way rain made strange patterns on its surface- In the way that it reflected the light of the moon onto her face.

From within the folds of her cloak, Kallah produced a tiny ship made of paper. With great care and deliberation, she set it upon the surface of the pond.

It fell over.

Frowning, the girl picked up the boat and examined it. It looked exactly as a boat should. Why shouldn't it float? Again, she set it on the water, and again it fell over. Stumped, the half-orc felt over the sails and the base. After a moment, she lay down on her stomach beside the pond, and again set her ship in the water. To her surprise, the bottom of the ship would not stay underwater. As soon as she removed her hand, it would pop up and knock the entire ship over.

After some deliberation, Kallah found a small flat rock and laid it down in the bottom of the ship. Once more, she placed her creation in the pond. This time it did not fall over. It wavered, and wobbled, but did not fall. A little push sent it bobbing triumphantly across the pond. Kallah smiled and propped her head up, watching the little boat on its heroic venture.

She never once noticed the shadowy figure behind her, nor the moonlight gleaming off its drawn scimitar.

* * *

Ahn'Qiraj  
Nathanos

Somewhere in the middle of running around with a giant tick chasing me, and hoping that Ras can keep fifteen broody Horde members and fifteen arrogant Alliance members working together to kill explosive eggs, I came to realize that I really, really hate the Qiraji. I hate them. I hate their pets, I hate their leaders, and- most of all- I hate their god. I've come to the conclusion that he must have been the god that landed me in this god-forsaken hell-hole (I told you it was easy to blame gods, yes?) and so now I am determined to extract payment out of his miserable hide.

My party members urge me towards them and then scatter. With a sigh, I turn my sprint towards the damaged egg. Buru the Gorger just follows me. I hit the egg as I go by, ripping the final cut in its disgusting bulk. The tick follows me. His body is positioned perfectly over the egg when it explodes. This is the sixth time we've pulled such a stunt, and this time it appears to finally break the stupid tick's back. Literally. His golden shell is ripped right off his frame, exposing a violet underbody and gargantuan brains protruding out from his back.

Aha! At least now we know why Buru fell for the same trick six times. Anyone whose brain is located solely in their posterior- no matter how large that brain happens to be- is bound to have some type of mental handicap. In any event, Buru doesn't appear to be quite dead yet. In fact, his first course of action is to charge all the flaming idiots who have started to cheer.

Rather than pulling out my bow, I heft both my axes and charge the stupid thing. I'll rip its carcass asunder and carry its head as an epaulet.

* * *

Theramore

Night time. A toy boat sailed across the Koi pond. It cloth sails were unfurled. Its wooden frame cut the water like a knife. It was built like an old Alliance battleship from the second war. Many boats had sailed across the Koi pond. At first, these boats were only paper. As the craftsman of the vessels grew in skill, they began having wooden bases and cloth sails. It was only a matter of time before details started appearing on them. This battleship even had little cannons.

Kallah watched the ship with a critical eye. She watched the wake of the boat for any signs of drag or hull inefficiencies. She examined how the sails filled in order to determine if they were placed just right. She-

The boat reached the other side of the pond. A gloved hand reached out into the moonlight. It gently turned the boat around, and then sent it floating back in her direction. Kallah blinked, lifting her head quickly and staring hard at where the hand had appeared. Her keen eyes delved into the shadows of the tree, and at last distinguished the yellow glow of two unnatural eyes. The girl docked her head to the side in bewilderment. The battleship reached her and she looked down at it. After a moment, she sent it gently back across the small pond.

Once more, the gloved hand halted it. This time it moved to the little sail riggings and straightened them, making them tauter in one area and looser in others. The sails were a portion that Kallah had difficult perfecting. No wind was necessary to propel her little vessel. After a moment, the gloved hand finished its work and returned the ship to her.

The half-orc girl was silent a moment, observing the shadows in curiosity. Still, she held no fear of the dark or its mysteries. When her battleship returned, she plucked it out of the water. After a moment of indecision, she pushed herself up to her feet, and navigated the edge of the pond, coming towards the shadowed thing. The yellow eyes followed her, but their owner merely waited.

Closer, closer the little girl came, until she was right beside the shadowed thing. There she halted, bathed in a patch of moonlight, and stared at the yellow-eyed thing. After a long, cricket-filled silence, she held out the battleship towards the thing.

The yellow eyes watched her for a long moment, and then disappeared briefly as their owner stood. Slowly, the shadows moved forward. Their dark shapes touched the moonlight and were molded by its silvery ray, forming into boots, and clothing, and hands, and a face. That face… A stylized hat shadowed some of its features, but she could still recognize the being before her. The face was masculine and leonine. Its cheeks were a ghastly pale. It sported a gray mustache and its hat was perched upon a mane of gray hair. Its expression was currently blank and restrained, and its brown eyes were shadowed.

She looked silently up into the face of her grandfather. After a long moment, she again offered him her toy battleship. He glanced down at the offered ship, and then gently took it in his hands. He examined the hull of the ship, and the integrity of the various masts. She stepped towards him, oblivious both to how he stiffened and to how his face contorted with hate. Instead, she silently showed him the tiny cannons she had placed within the ship, as well as the tiny doors that could cover them

Kallah felt him tremble, but did not understand why. She did not know of the struggle. She knew nothing of the hate, and the prejudice, and the pain; of the pride, and self-doubts, and rage; of the admiration. She did not even understand her dangerous position until his left hand crumpled the hull of her beautiful ship in frustration. The little girl gave a cry of dismay, and looked up at him with tears forming in her eyes.

Kallah had no idea that it took everything within him not to drown her then and there. Or that only the sight of her tears, gleaming silver upon her tiny cheeks, stayed his hand. He looked away, his eyes shut and his teeth clenched tightly together. After a moment, he thrust her ruined battleship back into her hands, and quickly took his leave.

She watched him, clutching the shattered corpse of her toy. She did not know that her mother had made identical boats many years before. She did not know he had watched her for weeks, unable to strike because he saw Jaina in her. She had no idea that her ignorance and naivety had saved her… Or that the little boat had taken her place.

Jaina watched her father walk off, and breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone. She turned her gaze back to Kallah, noting the upset and bewildered look on the child's face. The little girl gazed down at her broken toy and then plopped down, trying to piece its tattered body back together. For a moment there, Jaina had been ready blow Daelin to many little icy shards to get him away from Kallah. When he left of his own accord, she had been relieved, impressed, and- of course- made curious.

The shrewd sorceress watched over her daughter from the protection of invisibility and chuckled softly. "I think you've found a soft spot," she murmured. "Don't give up."

* * *

Ravenholt Manor

Fahrad was impressed. Puma had been bathed. Her hair had been soaped, conditioned, and patiently brushed out. Once this was done, it had been styled after the latest human fashions. She was in a plain blue dress with little blue shoes. Make-up had given her cheeks life and energy, and blue gloves that reached from her fingers to her elbows obscured her undead decay.

"Thorough job, Kang. But will she be able to maintain this appearance?"

The old orc snorted and nodded. "Well enough. If her partner sees fit to make modifications to her make-up, she's been… taught to hold still."

"Very good. You should try your hand at training hounds, Kang." Outwardly, the orc made no move. He had learned many things about self control from watching Puma. Inwardly he stiffened, disapproving of the manner in which Fahrad treated the undead girl. Ordinarily Fahrad was a reasonable man, and even amusing to talk to. Perhaps he felt Puma was so beneath the level of normal human understanding that his jokes would pass right over her head.

… Actually, now that Kang thought about it, they did. But that didn't necessarily make it right.

Puma just listened. Her brain could not operate on a high enough level to absorb everything that was going on, but her instincts compensated for what she could not understand. Kang was irritated. He smelled disappointed, and the subtle signals he gave off indicated that he was currently feeling protective over her. Fahrad was amused, and seemed to regard her with a dismissive air. He felt she was expendable, and so she could not trust him entirely.

Kang and Fahrad continued to converse. The two were so preoccupied that they did not immediately notice the soft creak of leather, or the soft, transient vibrations of feet against stone.

Puma did not like having strange people sneak up behind her. She turned her head with a snap, and looked behind her timidly. A strange man was there, leaning casually against a wall and watching Kang and Fahrad bicker. The creaking had come from his light brown leather armor. The vibrations had come from his padded boots. A small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, and his eyes conveyed both cold calculations and warm amusement. He quickly noticed that he had drawn her gaze and so gave her a wink. Puma blinked, clutching her arm with fake nervousness.

The two rogues took the moment Kang and Fahrad were occupied to size one another up. Kang had told Puma that she was to be paired with another rogue. If this man was to be her ally, she wanted to know everything about him. What she sensed was strange. His face seemed somewhere between boyhood and manhood. His eyes seemed both sprightly and mischievous, but the way he carried himself conveyed the dark experience of an assassin. Her eyes narrowed, and for a brief moment she showed signs of legitimate mental activity.

"Am I intruding, Grandmaster Rogue?" Puma blinked. Even his tone rang both of youthful indolence and calm arrogance. His paradoxical nature unsettled her.

Fahrad looked up and smirked in approval, before shaking his head slightly. "Not at all, Everon. Glad you could join us at last."

"I was… 'distracted' by your groundskeeper. Forgive me," he answered, giving Fahrad an appropriate nod of respect. The corner of the grandmaster's mouth quirked up.

"I shall make sure to confront her about that. Everon, this is going to be your partner, Puma." The rogue looked her up and down.

"Undead. Gloves, make up, nice new dress, grooming job. Two daggers on the left thigh, four on the other, two in the bodice, one behind the ear, one in each boot."

Fahrad smirked and applauded lightly. "Puma is a tad mentally unsound. I assume you thoroughly read my briefing?"

"Well enough. I'm impressed; she looks good," Everon continued without missing a beat, coming up to Puma and looking down at her. He was half a foot taller than her and she immediately looked down, every fiber of her being straining away from him. He smirked and reached forward to grab her chin. There was something about her, something that convinced the men around her that they were superior to her.

Kang noticed, and his eyes widened. Puma lifted her arms as if to shove Everon away. He caught one of her hands by the wrist. Her other hand shoved against his face, slipped to his neck, and held the blade of a tiny razor firmly against his throat. Everon's eyes widened in surprise. Somehow he had missed the tiny blade she had been holding in her hands.

The old orc monk immediately reached forward to grab Puma's wrist and restrain her. He grabbed her jaw and quickly turned her face to his, looking deep into her blank and lifeless eyes.

"Puma. Do. Not. Kill."

Fahrad began to laugh. Everon didn't make a sound, looking curiously between Kang and Puma. Allied rogues generally tried to worm blades between each others' defenses in order to test them. Very rarely did they actually stab one another… Well, unless they were contracted by another guild.

"Should have read the briefing better, Everon," Fahrad chastised, enjoying himself immensely.

The young rogue's expression didn't change, but his gaze alighted upon Puma's features. He studied her dead eyes- eyes that conveyed no inner struggle, no desire to stab him, no incentive to move away- in fact, eyes that conveyed no thought whatsoever. After a moment, a tiny metaphorical wheel gave a tiny metaphorical turn within her head. She lowered her razor, and just turned her gaze blankly back to his.

"Good girl," Kang said, gently releasing Puma's arm and eyeing Everon critically. "This is to be the rogue you are partnered with."

'_Good Girl.'_ Even without intending it, Kang treated her like a hound. Everon snorted, disgusted by the fact that a psychopathic hunting dog- nay, a mindless tool- had so easily bested him. He had bested all his peers- hell, he'd just entered the room without alerting even Fahrad- he… he…

If Puma could trick _him_… What poor fool _did_ stand a chance against her? This was her signature ability, wasn't it? Her ability to appear so meek was precisely the thing that made her so valuable. And if he could somehow harness that ability- if he could control it…

"… Puma," he said after a long moment. He could sense her focusing on him, her pupils shifting slightly. He smirked, and touched his chest. "Everon."

Puma stared at him a long moment and he could almost hear one or two tiny cogs turning within her head. Her blank eyes shifted slightly, taking in his countenance to the last detail.

Everon's hair was black and around a foot in length, so he had it drawn up behind him in a ponytail. A few unruly bangs had pulled free from their ties, and curved lightly down over his brow. His skin was bronzed, and he sported a light and meticulously groomed goatee. The nose was narrow and aquiline, the planes of his face sculpted and elegant in appearance. His brows were arched and well-defined, and from beneath them his eyes peered out like twin blue flames. About him was a constant and brazen aura of self confidence; he even gave the appearance that he was perpetually smirking.

Everon watched the cogs finally click to a halt in Puma's head. She paused briefly and then slowly leaned towards him. He blinked and regarded her with some wariness. Although her movement didn't seem particularly threatening, Puma based all of her skills off of the ability to appear meek and helpless.

Kang winced and Fahrad burst out laughing when Puma gave Everon a big wet lick. The good news was that she was satisfied with whatever it was she tasted.

* * *

Ahn'Qiraj

Nathanos quietly brushed bits of Ossirian the Veryscarred off of his axe, and settled down to sharpen its gleaming edge. The axes- and his fingers- had both been repaired thanks to the Cenarion Circle. The cold metal reflected his features in the light of the setting sun, and he paused in his sharpening. After a moment he took in a slow, unnecessary breath, and looked up at the sky, thinking. He breathed out, letting himself relax. Tensions, frustrations, and hatreds oozed out of him. The ranger closed his eyes and just breathed in and out.

A water droplet landed on his nose.

He blinked and opened his eyes, looking up at the sky. In retrospect, he should have noticed the giant, imposing black clouds. Another water droplet fell, and another, and another. His party quickly ran about, seeking cover from the impending storm. Nathanos just remained where he was, sitting beside Ossirian's vast carcass. Within mere seconds, the water was coming down in sheets, drenching him to the core.

The ranger just closed his eyes, and let the droplets dance over his countenance. For a brief moment, with a sweet breeze blowing across him and the raindrops pattering softly over him, he lost himself. He was no longer in Silithus, but far, far away… He was in the unconquered wilds of Lordaeron, with forest all around him. He was young and alive. His bow was pulled taut. On either side of him were his fellow rangers, all moving in silent tandem in the boughs of the trees.

Despite the fact that he was now much more powerful, Nathanos had the strangest feeling he had once been so much more than he was in the present.

He shook his head lightly and opened his eyes. Water cascaded down his arms and over his blades, wiping all grime and blood away. After a moment, he tugged off one of his own gloves and examined his fingers. Long… calloused, but nimble… Worn at the third digit of each finger, and along the curves of the palm. The hand of an archer; of a warrior. He lifted that hand to his face, and felt over his own dead features. More masculine and chiseled than an elf face, but still with a certain grace and elegance that his species normally did not possess. He was once the pinnacle of human pride. Something powerful, skilled, and beloved. His hair was somewhat bleached by the sun, but it still retained most of its brown coloration. His armor was faded, but still strong. The ranger could still walk as quietly as any highborn, rustling not even the crispest leaves with his uncanny steps. His aim with a bow had only improved, and he could track as well as ever.

Nathanos's eyes closed once more as the wind picked up. He licked the raindrops from his lips, and his eyelashes fluttered lightly as a thousand old memories flashed through his memory. He could almost taste elfish words on his lips, and picture the ancient city of Quel'Thalas. He remembered Sylvanas in all her living glory, and the old King Sunstrider, Kael'Thas's father…

He could remember Bolvar and Flint and…

He could remember _her_… Her blonde hair dancing like fire in the setting sun, her eyes closed tightly as she enjoyed its radiant light. He could remember her turning to him and laughing, her bright eyes glowing a brilliant white. He could remember the rain, and taking shelter beneath the sheltering branches of a willow. He could remember her tender kiss. She had tasted like a cool and exotic fruit. Both of them had been young- unaware of life's true evils. They had-

Nathanos screamed and jerked violently, refusing to remember anymore. He clutched his head, boring his fingers into his skulls, as if he could physically extract those wonderful, horrible memories from his mind. For the first time, he remembered Ketala's words- that he had been engaged in life. _Engaged_! For all he knew, he had slept with the she-elf, and could have a child out there somewhere, but he didn't want to know, he didn't want to remember!

The memories spilled in unbidden, despite his screams, despite his act of will. He remembered a thousand stolen moments, a thousand tender affections. He remembered proving himself to her family. He remembered her taste, and her curves, and-

He screamed and screamed, trying to forget what he had done, trying to forget what he had been. Trying to forget that he had ever loved anyone.

But he couldn't. Not any more. The merciful boundaries that death had installed were utterly washed away. The last floodgates between his undeath and his life had been opened. There was no closing them again. All of his memories returned to him. All of his experience. All his pain, his death, his love, his joy.

He was on the wet sand, curled up on his side. A shudder passed through him, from the top of his head to the tip of his booted feet. Another shudder. And another. And another. His screams dissolved into harsh sobs, and then, at last, into true crying. The rain covered the true tears that leaked their way from his dead eyes.

He could not forget. He could not forget that he had once loved a high elf woman by the name of Vila'thail. A beautiful creature with fiery blonde hair and the disposition of an angel. He could not forget that he had loved and been loved. He could not forget her kisses or her intoxicating taste. He could not forget holding her, his body pressed tight against hers, with nothing but rain around them and the starry sky above. He could not forget making love to her.

From the depths of his wretched soul issued forth such pain, such sorrow, such love. Such love… Such love for the one creature who had managed to teach him what love truly meant. Her name escaped his lips in the form of a low moan, his heart beating sympathetically within his breast- ashamed that he could have ever loved anything but her.

Such was the greatest gift that Truae could give him; three years after he had last seen her, in the middle of a desert, beside the body of a slaughtered foe, with nothing but the rain as her unintended weapon. Such was her greatest and most powerful gift: his humanity.

"Ketala…" he rasped. "Ketala…"

The rain washed over him, purging him, healing him. The sand beneath his cheek became a bed of pine needles, and carried him far, far away. His thoughts left him, stretching outward to the western horizon.

_I love you. _

His eyes opened. The alien land before him drew him back to the present. Past Ossirian's bulk, through the obscuring sheets of rain, he could just make out the edge of the Ahn'Qiraj temple. His shudders ceased, and he slowly lifted his head, his hawk eyes focused on that monumental building. A well of understanding blossomed through his chest. His fists and jaw clenched, his eyes flaming a light yellow color. His entire world faded, leaving little else but him and the distant temple.

_I'm coming. I will finish this here. I will force their eyes back to the northern lands._

_And then I'm coming._

* * *

Yarg! Review or... ...or...

Just review because you love me? Gotta love Jack Sparrow.


	5. Hope

Hehehehe! Look, 1 week only and I update!

I've also had a bout of inspiration for my Starcraft Fanfiction. Don't hold your breath, but I might post the first chapter soon. The fic shall probably be named "Children of Auir" or some such thing. It's not going to be the main fic I update, and the chapters are going to be much shorter. The fanfiction genre is a lot like MahiMahi's Genre: General. There are romances, there is humor, there's action and adventure, there's parental relationships... However, the Starcraft fic is going to have a very distinct element of supernatural horror to it. The fic shall feature 3+ child protagonists, as well as many of the canon Starcraft characters. The children are all protoss hybrid- hense the name of the fic. The children should all grow up through the course of the fic. I just have to figure out how I want to arrange everything, and I'll be good to post it.

Hope you like this chapter, guys! I would like to reccomend that if there are names or places you haven't heard of, hop on over to wowwiki.

* * *

**_Hope_**

* * *

Tempest Keep, Outland

Kael'Thas struggled to hold his pen steady. He felt at once famished and nauseous, and the sensations were overwhelming him. The elf prince took in a steadying breath and swallowed hard. Across his tongue he could actually taste the nearby wells of demonic magic. All of Outland was polluted with the stuff. It had infiltrated his every pore, and his body screamed for him to take in more. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. He would resist until he had no will left within him.

That, unfortunately, was not going to be a long time in coming. Even now, he had difficulty supporting his morals and thoughts above his overwhelming thirst for magic. Outland was driving him insane. He had entire black-out periods where he could remember nothing but his starvation for power.

In frustration, the elf dropped his pen and closed his eyes. He massaged his temples and the bridge of his nose, and then took in a deep breath. Slowly the burning addiction dimmed as he took a moment to meditate and conserve his strength. Kael knew that he was losing his inner war. His only rock, his only shield was his burning desire to save his people from their magical addiction. After a moment, his green eyes opened, and he glanced over at the Vial of Eternity that Illidan had gifted to him.

The Vial was a great artifact and an even greater temptation. Looking upon it always filled him with equal parts hope and despair. Inside that Vial was a small sample from the old Well of Eternity, collected from its waters by Illidan himself. With it, Kael could restore Silvermoon's Sunwell tenfold. He could bring back magic to his people, and save them from themselves.

But the solution to saving the elves was not so simple. He could not return to Silvermoon himself, and he dare not entrust the vial to anyone else. In addition, if Silvermoon could not protect the well, the elves would be overrun by monsters seeking its power. No… Illidan had him on a tight leash, and desired him to remain in Outland to defend against any attacks by Kil'Jaden.

And Kil'jaeden… Well, there were reasons that he was called the defiler. Kael squeezed his eyes shut again. He didn't want to think about _that_ or what _it_ meant. He did not want to think about all that he was gambling. He did not want to think about what he had done, or how far that it meant he had fallen.

If he thought about it, Kil'jaeden might hear…

And he didn't want to really hurt anyone. He didn't want to do this. He hated them. He hated Illidan, and the demons, and distrusted the lot of them. And rightly, he knew he should not invest any hope in plots that dealt with them, as they were superior to him. But he hated the humans, and he hated the undead, and it burned within him, and he wanted to destroy them, and Tempest Keep, and he could rip them apart, and make them pay, and Garithos, and salvation and mixed with the yearning for magic, and if only Jaina Proudmoore had loved him, and he would never be Illidan, but he was, he was so much like the demon, he had practically sold his soul, and all so that he could protect his people when the sunwell was back, but the sunwell was destroyed, and he fought against Arthas, but Kil'jaeden was so powerful, and he hated them, and he was so angry, and the anger overwhelmed and made his blood black-

At that moment, Kael'Thas Sunstrider realized that he had lost the majority of his mind. He was crazy.

Kael began to laugh. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until his laughs were more like sobs or screams than anything else. At last his green eyes opened to slits, and he looked pathetically out across his planning table, his thoughts spiraling in all directions. He still wore an insane smirk across his face. There was a moment of the most horrible and repressive silence. Then tears formed at the corners of his polluted eyes. Each tear lingered for but an instant, suspended over a chasm from which there was no return. For a moment each tear clung to the edges of his golden lashes, before at last giving in. Each inevitably slid down over his colorless cheeks.

After a long moment, he once more closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. Very soon, the elf prince would be unable to trust his own mind. When that time came, he had to ensure that all the pieces were in place. He could indeed save his people, but only if he entrusted their salvation to others; to those stronger than he. After calming himself, Kael once more opened his eyes. He glanced again at the Vial of Eternity, and reached out to touch it.

In the first months in Outland, Kael'thas had combated the addiction of his people with will and meditation. He had striven to build a home for the blood elves in the wretched red land. He had tried to harness elemental energies with little success. He had sent rangers back to Outland to search for Zul'vii. But the months kept passing. There was still no magic. The addition was growing. There was demonic power all around. Zul'vii could not be found. Elemental energy was too wild to be harnessed by anything other than shamans. There was no hope. There was nothing to keep him going.

A year into their occupation of Outland, and Kael had lost the majority of his faith in a happy outcome for his kind. In pursuit for arcane power, he had stormed Tempest Keep, and had taken it for his own. The Keep had once been a great naaru "ship," a device that could transcend the planes and carry beings to other worlds. In it, Kael had found a single naaru named M'uru, a being of great power and Light.

By that time, Kael had thoroughly hated the Light.

It took quite some time and effort before M'uru was at last defeated. Rather than killing the naaru, Kael had elected to capture it. Upon seeing the great being helpless before him, bound in chains of magic and shadow, Kael had felt a mixture of sympathy and hunger. He had stepped forward and touched one of the naaru's symbolic plates, and had siphoned energy from the creature.

The holy energy had been pure and radiant. It had rushed through him, filling every pore with warmth and energy. In that moment, he realized that the naaru had freely parted with its energies. It had allowed itself to be defeated, so that it might somehow help his people.

Confused, disillusioned, hopeful, and without a straight path, Kael had ordered M'uru to be painstakingly transported back to Azeroth, to Silvermoon city itself. There, he had hoped, the naaru would be able to aid his people. And as much as Kael felt the Light had betrayed his people, it was the only thing left to fight against the Burning Legion. It was the only thing left that could slake his peoples' unholy thirst without damning them in the process.

After fasting from demonic magic for several days, and relying solely on meditation to feed him, Kael came to the conclusion that he, the prince-king of the blood elves, the rightful leader of his people, he last heir in an ancient dynasty of powerful and virtuous elves- he… did not have the strength to save his people. He did not have the will. He did not have the faith. He did not have the conviction. Kael was lost somewhere, adrift in a sea of helpless servitude. He then concluded that if he could not save his people, someone else had to.

A year ago, a blood elf by the name of Voren'thal had led a great army of Kael's most powerful and intelligent followers to attack Shattrath city, a bastion for draenei and naaru- enemies to blood elf and demon alike. Kael had hand-picked every soldier sent on that journey. He had spent excessive time weeding them out from their fellows. He had chosen the best. He had chosen the ones with the most will and inner strength. Most of all, he had sent Voren to lead them, because the man had not yet abandoned the Light. Voren'thal's armies had advanced on Shattrath. There, they laid down their arms. Voren'thal had met with the naaru leader of his city, and had devoted all of his followers to the service of the Light.

It was the only thing that Kael had ever been able to do right for his people. And hopefully, lest they brand him a hero, no one would ever know.

* * *

Mulgore

"Oh no! The Man-Eating Ogre is AFTER YOUUU! RAWWWRRRR!"

Kallah giggled in delight, crawling away from her large, green companion at full speed. Thrall's mock-roaring was interspersed with laughter as he stalked after his little daughter. A quick step placed him in front of her. "Oh no! He's caught you!" he cried, crouching down and scooping her up by the legs.

"Ahh!" she laughed out, her tiny fingers latching tightly on to the grass.

"Mmmmm, baby! Let's see how this one tastes!" the great orc continued, pulling one of Kallah's tiny feet into his mouth and sucking on her toes. She gave a squeal of laughter and wormed helplessly. "Nooo!" she howled in pretend dismay.

"Blech! This one tastes like grass! It must eat is vegetables like its mommy and daddy tell it to!"

Kallah blinked. "Like broc… broc…ih… lee?" she asked inquisitively, looking up at the laughing face of her parent.

Thrall grinned broadly, calling into memory a story that Jaina had told him concerning Kallah, broccoli, and sneaking a certain Frostwolf food under the table. "Yes, like broccoli. Only… hmmm…" He licked her food experimentally and she giggled, squirming.

"Oh, this one apparently does not eat enough broccoli! I am tasting chicken, now! And ogres _like_ chicken!"

"Nooo!"

* * *

(cont)

When Kallah was too tired to roughhouse anymore, Thrall lay down against the grass and pointed out the shapes of various creatures and objects in the clouds. Kallah curled up against his chest and pointed out shapes of her own. Mulgore was always a pleasant place to get away from the troubles of the world at. All around them was a sea of waving green. The breeze was cool and the sun was warm. Above them, the sky was a brilliant light blue, and filled with thousands of puffy white clouds.

Kallah gave a sleepy yawn, and her eyes half closed. Thrall looked at her and smiled, touching his tusked lips to her temple and hugging her a bit tighter. A tiny smile dimpled her face. She closed her eyes altogether, and snuggled happily into his protective embrace. Thrall watched the little girl sleep and brushed his battle-roughened fingers through her soft black hair. For a moment, there was no Orgrimmar. There was no Horde, there was no Alliance. There were no demons, or undead, or silithids. All that existed was the grass, the sky, and his tiny daughter.

Which might have explained how he could have accidentally fallen asleep. He woke to the thundering of Kodo feet.

* * *

(cont)

Kallah ran, crawled, and tumbled happily across the grassy field, feeling the soft green blades beneath her tiny fingers and toes. Ahead of her flitted a butterfly, painted with bright pinks and blues. The creature always managed to keep just out of her reach. At first, she did not notice the soft tremors of the ground. Then, as the tremors became all out quakes, she paused and docked her head to the side. Shaking ground had never happened to Kallah before. She hadn't any idea what was going on.

Quite suddenly a gigantic wrinkly behemoth crested a hill beside the little girl. Its massive legs were like tree trunks. Its body seemed like giant boulders encased in a shell of bark and ropy muscles. The ground trembled with each step and the air vibrated with its explosive bugle. Kallah blinked up at the creatures in wonder. The great monster thundered over the hill and headed straight for her. Right on its heels were several more of the great beasts, all of various different shapes and sizes. Dust erupted into the air wherever they stepped, and their legs were like a moving forest. The lead creature was the largest of all, a great dun-colored beast roughly the size of a full grown elephant. It bugled again as it neared Kallah; but with its limited perception and overwhelming momentum, it clearly expected _her_ to get out of the way.

A full blown roar answered the bugle. Just before the kodo reached the unsuspecting girl, a shape rushed up and slammed brutally into the Kodo's massive chest. Now most people that tackled Kodos had a tendency to simply bounce off of their hides. In fact, Kodo hide was impervious to almost everything, from spears to cannonballs. Therefore, it was to this Kodo's immense surprise that an orc- of all things- managed to halt its forward momentum.

Thrall's shamanistic gifts coursed through him, empowering his straining muscles with uncanny strength. His adrenaline had gone absolutely mad. His shoulder dug hard into the Kodo's large chest and, to the beast's continuing surprised, forced its front end off the ground. The poor Kodo reared back in confusion, its stubby legs trying to pull it away from the enraged orc. Thrall roared again. He gripped the Kodo's throat with one hand, and shoved ruthlessly to the side. Much to the Kodo's relief, its front end landed on the ground again. It was now facing a slightly different direction, and causing massive travel congestion among its herd, but the world was as it should be. With a typical Kodo mentality, it began walking in its new direction.

Thrall shuddered, backing up as the herd changed direction and began heading away from his daughter. His exertions had left him quite drained, and his whole body tingled in adrenaline-suppressed pain. He reached down and scooped up his daughter, and proceeded to carry her a safe distance from the stampeding animals. When he was sure everything was safe, he set the little girl down, turned away, and was violently sick all over the ground.

He had never known it was possible to be so frightened.

* * *

Naxxramas

Flames rippled down along Ketala's arms and channeled over her beautiful blades. A hacking motion sent a wave of fire screaming through the air.

The Scarlet Crusaders on the receiving end of her attack never knew what hit them. The flames burned at all exposed tissue, and heated their armor to unbearable levels. The sounds and smells accompanying burning flesh drifted to her, but she did not pause or hesitate. She ran forward, blades rippling with dark energy. She ripped them apart in the most effective of ways. If gutting an opponent made the kill faster, she did so. She then left the opponent to die slowly of his wounds, with his intestines on the ground before him. She was what the Lich King made her. The former paladin served now as Ner'zhul's sword arm. Through her, he forced his will onto those who would stand against him.

Within ten minutes, every crusader was disabled or dead, and the ground around Ketala was awash with fresh blood. Arthas's specter applauded. She ignored him, or didn't notice. Didn't notice, or didn't care. For a moment, she considered putting those that still lived out of their misery. Then she decided it didn't matter; Kel'Thuzad would raise them all as undead anyway.

She cleaned her blades off against the bodies of the slain, and then quietly walked away. The hallways of Naxxramas were extensive. Even after living in the floating ziggurat for two and a half years, Ketala had not explored all of its winding passages. Her plate boots clacked softly against the ground. As she walked, she lifted a hand to her white breastplate, and felt over the insignia of the silver hand engraved into the metal. It had been a long time since she felt worthy of donning her armor.

Ahead of her, she heard the clacking of hooves. One of the horsemen was up and about. The four of them were generally very reclusive, but Ketala did not find it odd that one should be in the same vicinity as her. Doubtless Lady Blaumeux, Rider of Famine, was again annoyed that Ketala kept stealing all the "fun." Out of the four, Blaumeux was the only rider that she had ever met. The Lady hated Ketala with a passion- even more so because the undead girl was too glum and apathetic to care about what the woman had to say.

Ketala just kept walking, her eyes whirling a dull orange. The hooves came closer and closer, until at last Ketala rounded a corner and came face to face with an undead horse. To her surprise, the mount did not belong to Blaumeux. Its armor was white and seated with violet gems. Blaumeux's steed was robed in blue and black. The rider, perceiving that he was just about to run someone over, quickly reined his horse to the side. This act of common courtesy was so out of place in Naxxramas that it pierced Ketala's apathy, and drew her attention. For a moment, Ketala and the rider looked directly at one another. Both were taken aback at what they saw.

The Rider was dressed in beautiful plate armor. It was white in coloration, and trimmed with a soft yellow. A white cowl was wrapped around his face. On his brow was a circlet. It was set with a purple gem and sported two stylized metal wings in a manner that typically symbolized victory. His hair was long and black, and much of it had been tied behind him. She could not see much of his face due to his cowl, but she could clearly make out his eyes. In them, she saw betrayal, helplessness, and sadness. In them, in the depths of his soul, she could find no shred of hatred or greed.

Ketala's white plate was stained with blood. Her own black hair shrouded most of her face. Her helm, which she carried under one arm, sported two spiked fins. And in her eyes, he could see something great… Something caged and bound… Something that, long ago, had lost all hope.

For the longest moment, the two just stared. Each saw his or herself mirrored in the other. Then, so very slowly, Ketala moved. Her feet drew her forward, and closed the gap between them. Her arms acted of their own accord, and lifted her hands towards his face. Without thinking, he leaned closer to her, and closed his eyes as her fingers gently cupped his cheeks.

For a moment, both were still. Then the rider sat back upright, and Ketala lowered her hands. Kel'Thuzad had given him orders, and he had no choice to obey. He gave his horse a nudge and it continued down the hallway. After four or five steps, he turned in his saddle to look back at her. The undead girl docked her head to the side and then gave a small smile. She lifted her hand, and gave a parting wave. Her eyes whirled a vibrant mix of greens, yellows, and pinks.

Zeliek. His name was Sir Zeliek. And hers was Ketala.

* * *

Ship: Hillsbrad to Westfall

Puma was looking over the side of the ship and staring intently at the waters below. She had never imagined that water could stretch from horizon to horizon, or that it could be so unfathomably deep. One of the sailors was approaching her from behind. He smelled slightly aroused. Puma was, by and large, an animal. Unfortunately for this sailor, she was an _undead_ animal with an obsessive compulsive stabbing disorder. The undead rogue shrunk down slightly, making herself seem smaller and more vulnerable. She waited, every one of her muscles preparing to pounce.

The man came closer still. His breath smelled faintly of whisky. It was late at night, and most of the boat's passengers and sailors had already gone to bed. She shivered as she felt rough hands grab her waist, just to lull him further into a sense of power. A moment passed. Quite suddenly, Puma whirled around, her dagger glinting in the moonlight.

A firm hand gripped hers and another wrenched the sailor away. Everon pushed himself between Puma and the drunken man.

"Excuse me sir, but you seem to be a little lost. Would you like me to escort you to your quarters?" the male rogue asked suavely. Before the drunken man could stutter out a nonsensical reply. "Of course, it seems a strange thing for a sailor to be lost on his own ship…"

The man grunted, trying to defend himself with, "Wasn't lost, boy."

Everon blinked in mock concern. "Oh, but you must have been! How else could your hands have ended up upon my wife's bottom unless they were unaware of their location? Why, that would be positively orcish behavior, and I know no upstanding citizen of the alliance would even think to sully themselves with such an… an… unpatriotic act!"

The poor man just blinked, trying to construe a reply. By the time he had managed to form the first word of his carefully formed and yet totally inebriated argument, Everon had propelled him to the cabin, and was shooing him off to his rooms.

The black-haired rogue watched the Sailor stumble off to his quarters, and then quietly made his way back to Puma. The girl was standing there, her dagger still raised as if to stab someone, her blank eyes directed towards him.

Everon smiled. "Why Puma, I'm flattered," he said with grand flourish. "I do believe that is the first time you have neglected to stab me for getting in your way."

Puma didn't react, still watching him. He merely winked, and came over to lean his arms against the ship railing so that he might stare out at the sea. Her eyes followed him for a long moment, and then turned out to the sea as well. After a long time of gazing at the dark horizon, the rogue looked over at her once more.

"Contemplating the mysteries of the universe?" he asked with a smirk.

Silence.

He moved a hand, carefully moving it towards her face. Immediately she shrank down, looking nervously at his fingers. Everon put on his stern face and shook his finger at her crossly. "No! Bad, Puma! Bad!"

She blinked.

"Bad Puma! No stabbing!"

She blinked again, and straightened a little, her eyebrows furrowing slightly.

Everon grinned and proceeded to pat her on the head. "Good Puma… No stabbing. Good… Now, look up," he said, gently tilting her chin up, and gesturing up towards the sky. She eyed him a moment and then obeyed, lifting her eyes to the stars. A very rare expression of surprise and curiosity crossed her face. Above her was a great and endless velvet mass, with tiny twinkling lights seated in its soft black depths.

Everon smiled. He patted her head once, let his hand slip gently down the length of her hair, and then gazed quietly at her face. His smile slowly faded.

Reflected in her eyes was the light of a thousand stars. The expression on her face was so pristine, so pure; he could imagine it upon the face of the first human to ever gaze up at the sky. There was a realization there- an understanding in those gray eyes that could not quite be defined…

He wished he had a painter present, so that someone might capture that moment of discovery and give it permanence. At it was, he memorized every last detail of her simple expression, and bathed in the profound meaning to which that expression was so elegantly attached.

* * *

Ahn'Quiraj

A temple organizer has to design the layout for the Ahn'Qiraj temple grounds. What should he do when presented with the following facts about the temple's needs? 1. The Qiraji were supposedly a race of very powerful and intelligent ancient beings, who had at one point claimed much of the world as part of their empire. 2. The Qiraji are under attack by outside forces that seek to eradicate them. 3. The Qiraji have a powerful and beloved prophet who leads their people- _the_ prophet, in fact, that first discovered C'Thun. 4. The Qiraji also have a gargantuan sandworm named Ouro who likes to smash things. 5. The Quiraji have to defend their temple from intrusion.

Well, _obviously_, the smart thing to do would be to place the prophet at the entrance to the temple grounds, and surround him with only a few loyal units. Once that's done, one can place the Sandworm in a hidden and remote area, secreted deep in the back of the temple where absolutely no one will ever have to tread.

Hell, once the temple organizer's come up with that brilliant piece of handiwork, he might as well just sit the building containing his god right beside the entrance. Then he can stick a wall between the two, and link them together via a long, winding path through the rest of the temple grounds. In this manner, adventurers would be forced to traverse the winding path before accessing the house of C'Thun. As long as one ignores the fact that the Alliance and Horde both employ siege engines, the plan's foolproof!

And maybe it was, Nathanos decided, after staring at the layout with nothing short of incredulity. The only reason the undead ranger didn't just climb over the damn walls separating him from C'Thun was because half of his party was wearing heavy plate. "Heavy plate" plus "climbing" equaled "grievous injuries." He was too impatient to wait for a catapult to arrive, so he decided to simply take the temple organizer's round about route to C'Thun's chamber. At least then he'd be able to kill insects on his way.

If only there was some way to just delete walls, or something…

"NATHANOS!" Ras yelled irritably. "Would you _please_ just help us with the damn battle?" Nathanos looked over at Ras, who was busy hurling ice bolts at a very angry Prophet Skeram.

"But… but… It's just so _stupid_!" he complained in dismay, holding his arms out and gesturing to the wall between him and C'Thun. "Who the nether _built_ this place? _I_ could have done a better job!"

"Be that as it may, we are in the middle of a fight!"

"But-!"

"_Nathanos!_"

The ranger sighed exaggeratedly, pulling out his axes and sauntering down towards the prophet. "Fine, fine. I'll help you with your little battle," he muttered. "Don't know what you're all upset about. That orc warrior looks like he's doing fine holding-"

At that moment, a sense of True Fulfillment came over said orc warrior. He felt as if he had finally found his purpose in life, and power and adrenaline rushed through him. He suddenly doubled in size. He felt as if his legs could carry him thousands of miles in a matter of minutes. His muscles were like finely honed diamond. And the Prophet Skeram was in danger! He had to defend the prophet! He had to-

Ras promptly turned him into a sheep. Problem solved. He looked sidelong at Nathanos with an expression that clearly said "Get your ass in there." The Ranger lifted a brow and then shrugged.

"One second."

"_ONE SECOND?_ What the hell is the _matter_ with you?" the ex-lich exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air. "We-!"

At that point, the Prophet Skeram vanished, and reappeared directly behind Ras. Nathanos gave a salute with his axe to the surprised magic user, and then promptly charged the enormous pink and purple prophet.

The Prophet Skeram was in a state of religious fervor. Here these monstrosities had come into his sacred home and threatened _him_, the highest and most devoted of the Qiraji. Obvious these were creatures without faith, and likewise must be punished. He reared up, slashing forward at the undead filth that now threatened him.

He was quite surprised when three creatures- three _spiders_, no less- tripped him and sent him off balance. The undead's axes ripped across his underbelly and he snarled in surprise. Such a low blow! Clearly these creatures lacked ethics as well! Well, he had a few tricks up his sleeves as well.

It was at that moment that the Prophet Skeram vanished momentarily. Four Prophet Skerams reappeared, one on every platform in the temple. Nathanos lifted a brow and then looked to Raz.

"Three must be illusions," the mage conjectured. "Only one-" Nathanos lifted his axe in time to block a blow from whatever was fighting him. The axe came into contact with solid flesh. He smirked and stepped forward to slash at the Prophet's legs. Surprisingly, the Prophet did not move in time to stop his blow. His axe sunk in deep- too deep…

"Not illusions," Nathanos grunted. "Half real, much weaker. I and my spiders should be able to kill it in…" He blinked. His spiders were not attacking the figment prophet. In fact, he couldn't see them anywhere. He deflected a blow from the Prophets forelegs, weathered through an explosion of magic, and then looked around briefly. After a moment, he caught sight of his spiders. All three were heading in the direction of one of the other Skerams. The ranger grinned. "Ras, follow the spiders. They smell the real one. I can take this thing all on my own."

The mage glanced at him and then nodded. He turned and took off quickly down the temple steps, following the three dreadmists. Nathanos looked back to his personal half-prophet and grinned. He was unprepared for the wash of True Fulfillment that came over him. He suddenly doubled in size. He felt as if his legs could carry him thousands of miles in a matter of minutes. His muscles were like finely honed diamond. And the Prophet Skeram…

True Fulfillment? Death? Peace? Belonging? Love?

The Prophet Skeram was between him and returning to Ketala. Between him and C'Thun.

Nathanos's eyes flamed, rage erupting from him at the half-prophet's attempt to seize his mind. He shrieked, bull rushing the Qiraji and then bringing his axes to bare, slicing through the thick plates protecting the half-prophet's torso. And then he was past the plate, cleaving the damn monstrosity in half. Hack after hack, until he had utterly severed the half-prophet's upper body from its legs.

He whirled around and his eyes locked on Ras, on his spiders… on the real Prophet.

* * *

Naxxramas

Ketala did not have a room of her own. This was a psychological tool, used to constantly remind her that she had no freedom and no privacy. She was a slave to Ner'zhul's will- nothing more. However, Ketala could hardly be described as upset with the situation. Due to her high value, she was given a place in Kel'Thuzad's throne room. Despite everything that had happened, it still pleased the undead girl to be so close to her adoptive parent.

Ketala carefully removed very piece of her white plate, and set them down on the floor. She had neglected the armor, and had not properly cleaned it since her first arrival in Naxxramas. That was unacceptable. With great care and devotion, Ketala set to scrubbing each piece of metal free of blood. She labored for hours, scrubbing, chipping, polishing; until at last all the stains were at last gone. Kel'Thuzad just watched her. When he was not planning, plotting scheming, conniving, or torturing something, he had little else to do.

Little shuffling footsteps brushed across the floor beside her, and she smiled and turned around. Next to her stood a little boy not even three years of age. His skin was pale gray, both due to his heritage and to the fact that he had never seen sunlight. His hair was a mousy brown, and his eyes whirled many strange and bizarre colors.

Ketala ruffled his hair, and then plucked him off the ground and set him down upon her lap. He looked up at her curiously and she tenderly kissed his brow.

His name was Vaiden. He was the precipice that everything balanced upon. Ketala's cage and freedom, all in one. The one wild card, the one unpredictable element. The one thing that Ner'zhul could not take from her.

* * *

Flashback, Naxxramas

Ketala shuddered and arched her back. Her whole body was wracked with pain and she clenched her teeth tightly and gave out an anguished sigh. She had clenched her fists so tightly that her nails were cutting holes into her palms, and still she could not overcome the pain. Her stomach muscles strained and contorted, trying to perform a duty for which death had left them inept.

Ketala had been killed at the onset of adulthood. Her hips were exceptionally narrow. She was, for most intents and purposes, undead. Her body had not been able to properly equip itself for this trying endeavor. Nothing had grown or altered tremendously. She had hardly even gained any weight. Since she was carrying the child high up in her womb, it was difficult to notice that she was even pregnant.

No, the child that Ketala carried within her was a miracle babe- something that shouldn't have ever been conceived, and something that certainly shouldn't have survived. But it had. And it wanted _out_. The problem was that her failing body was unable to carry out this final step.

She gave a scream of pain. Her whole body felt as if it was on fire, and she could literally feel things ripping inside of her. She couldn't do this. Her body was not capable. It was not pliable enough, not strong enough, not _alive_ enough. She was only three hours into labor. Her body was ripping itself apart as if it had expected to pull of the miracle of birth in but a few minutes, and was exacting vengeance for the delay. "DADDY! _DADDY!_"

A cold aura washed over her as the lich carefully "knelt" beside her and reached over to touch her face. She shuddered and quickly grabbed on to his arm, squeezing tightly and worming in pain. Her cheeks were ruddy with effort and cold sweat had actually beaded on her brow.

"I'm here…" he murmured, slowly moving his arms around her and pulling her up against him. She kicked weakly at the ground, pain flowing over her in waves. In his eyes, the necromantic energies that held her together were being equally strained. Both portions of her, the living and the dead, were in close harmony. Failing to properly deliver the child would probably not kill her, but it would take her ages to properly recover…

And, of course, he was rather interested in her unborn child. There was no sense in killing it off so early.

"D-daddy…" she whimpered weakly, grabbing on to one of his tusks. He turned his eyes and looked directly into hers. The whirling depths caused him such deep and profound nostalgia that he had to look down.

"Trust me, Ketala… Trust me," he said softly, and he carefully drew out a knife. Her eyes widened and she looked at him in alarm. He shook his head lightly, and dropped the blade, instead cupping her face with that hand. "I will not kill the child. It's okay. Trust me…"

And she did. He moved his hand back to the blade and then gently touched the knife's tip to her stomach. She tensed and clung to him, her eyes shutting tightly. He was quick; it only took him a moment to pull the child safely from her womb.

Ketala gasped and clutched herself. Holy energy rippled through her frame, mending the wound and easing her agony. Slowly her body calmed. When she had the strength to look up again, Kel'Thuzad was standing before her. In his arms was a small, and very anorexic looking child, with skin the color of ash. The little boy was kicking and squirming, clearly discomforted by the cold. Strangely enough, the child was not crying. The undead girl shuddered, and then weakly lifted her arms, silently asking for her parent to give the child to her.

The lich looked down at her, and then shook his head. "The Lich King has a great interest in this child, Ketala. The boy will be sent to Icecrown on the first ship available."

The paladin girl blinked, and her eyes widened slightly. She stared at him in surprise and disbelief. "… Daddy…"

"I'm sorry, Ketala. It is the master's will."

"… Give him to me," she whispered, her eyes searching his.

He looked away, and began drifting towards the exit to his throne room. "I am sorry."

A memory flashed through her mind. She recalled the moment Kel'Thuzad had learned of her pregnancy.

"_**But you love me," she whispered, her lower jaw quivering. "You **__**love**__** me."**_

"_**More that you know, Ketala," he admitted quietly. "More than my own existence. But you overestimate love's power. It is not enough. **__**His**__** power over me is greater. I am… sorry." And with that, he simply turned and floated away.**_

She remembered the pain, and the disillusioning. He had caused her such suffering- such loss of hope. He had taken from her, all the in name of the Lich King. He had loved her, and he had let himself hurt her… He had let himself hurt her child.

He was weak. Weak, and sick in spirit. He would not save her. He would not save Vaiden. He had given up, and in doing so had forsaken her. If he would not stand up for all that was important to him, so be it.

But she would.

"GIVE HIM TO ME!"

The words echoed in split tones across throne room. One tone was high and feminine. The other was deep and rumbled deep and earthy. Kel'Thuzad turned in surprise to look at his ward. By that time, Ketala had already closed the distance to him, and was hacking at him madly with her blades. Her eyes flamed brilliant violet, and her blades rippled with light. He stumbled backwards in surprise, trying to erect a shield of ice. Her blades slit through his arms, ripping huge gashes into his bones. The ice shield appeared around him and her blades exploded with flame. Within seconds they were boring through the magical force field, ripping it apart as if it were made of paper.

"GIVE HIM TO ME!" she screamed.

"Now, now, Ketala. You are breathing your oaths. And aren't you the perfect little paladin girl, always holding true to your vows?" Kel'Thuzad chided grimly, hurling a powerful bolt of shadow at her chest- something strong enough to subdue her.

To his amazement, she absorbed it and then flung it back at him. Tendril-like wings rippled out from her back, exploding with brilliant white power. They anchored into the ground and walls around her, boring in and ripping the architecture down brick by brick.

"I WILL RIP YOU APART! I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL KILL YOU AND EVERY LAST UNDEAD ON THIS PLANET BEFORE I ALLOW YOU TO TAKE HIM! GIVE HIM TO ME!" Her voice was naught but one continuous split-toned scream. There were not at least seven pitches, and the sound was grating.

His eyes narrowed as he realized she was speaking the truth, and he began summoning the bulk of his powers, hurling various spells at her as he backed away from her incessant slashing. She just ran straight into the spells. They sunk into her, absorbed into her being and then thrust out towards him again. Her blades hacked madly at him, ripping apart his shield and then tearing into his skeletal frame. A few of his ribs were sent flying.

"GIVE HIM TO ME!"

The floor cracked around her feet. Violet, white, and yellow energy rippled around her, tearing apart the foundation upon which they stood. Her wings lashed forward, grabbing at him and ripping huge chunks from his frame. Kel'Thuzad stared in her amazement, still trying to get away from her blows.

"I relied on you. I trusted you; I needed you; I _loved_ you! Everything I was, everything I ever did was to save you! You who gave me freedom. You who gave me life. And yet now I see that everything you gave was out of selfishness! Everything you did for me, out of loneliness! You freed me out of guild. You fought Arthas out of guilt! THERE IS NOTHING IN YOU WORTH SAVING! I WILL KILL YOU! I WILL RIP YOU APART, YOU HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE, WRETCHED CREATURE! You who are so weak that you cannot save the one thing that means something to you! You who are so weak that you would rather destroy everything you have then endure a moment of suffering!"

Kel'Thuzad's eyes flamed. He advanced a step on Ketala, whipping an explosion of flame at her and catching her off guard. "A _moment_ of suffering? A _moment _of _suffering?_ Silence your fool tongue Ketala! You know nothing of what I have endured! An eternity he tortured me beneath the ice, ripping apart my mind until there were only fragments left of it! You believe that love is more powerful than everything in the world; but you are wrong! There is one thing, something deep inside each being, that they simply cannot hold out against! He found it! He wormed his way into my mind. He exposed everything dark and weak within me, and ripped them apart slowly, savoring my every scream! And you call that a _moment_ of _SUFFERING_?"

She launched at him, her blade arcing expertly through the air. The tip caught his forearm dead center, and promptly ripped the end of the limb from its moorings. Half his forearm, along with the entirety of his hand, went flying against the room. He nearly dropped Vaiden, and was exposed when she dropped her blade, reached forward barehanded, and grabbed his spine at the neck. Sheslammed him hard into the wall behind him, and dragged him down to her level.

"I would have saved you. I would have _died_ for you," she whispered, her eyes blazing purple. "I would have done anything to save you from him. And I would have healed _everything_ he had ever done to you."

"You forget, Ketala, that I started dark. My soul began this journey as evil. I headed his call _willingly_!Some things cannot be healed!" he snarled, ramming a bolt of shadow into her. She did not flinch, her white fire blazing up even hotter. She forced him down lower, her hand on his spine tightening. He could feel his vertebrae cracking against one another. Her wings arched out around her, illuminating the entire throne room with white-hot light. For a moment, her elemental heritage and angelic gifts were one.

He looked directly into her eyes, and for the first time, he could not look away. There was such passion, such love there, that it overwhelmed anything else. There was no hatred in her fury. Despite her words, despite the fact that he was certain she would kill him if she could, there was no hatred… Only sorrow; only pain; only love.

"Don't you understand?" Her split tones hushed to a whisper now. Strangely enough, that only made them more powerful; more unnerving. "That is my purpose. That is my gift. To make light that which is dark. To heal that which cannot be healed…" Tears formed in her violet eyes, slowly dripping down her cheeks. Her hand tightened on his vertebrae, her maternal instinct overwhelming her filial love once more. "But I will never let you hurt him… Give him to me-"

He was already holding up the child with his one good hand before she finished the command. Ketala did not pause to consider his actions; she immediately grabbed the little boy and smothered him in a hug. The girl took a step back from the lich and then sunk to her knees, letting holy energy flow through the child. She closed her eyes. The wings faded, and the violet-white energy melted away. Ketala wavered and then jerked as if coming awake. Her eyes opened to slits and she looked around in bewilderment. She blinked at Kel'Thuzad, and tilted her head to the side.

She had no memory of what had happened.

Kel'Thuzad, on the other hand, did. When he reported to Arthas, he stressed heavily the fact that Ketala had been beyond all hope of control. He advised that the girl be kept from returning to that state. Ketala was powerful but predictable in her current incarnation, and she still managed to cause them trouble. For the girl to throw off all weakness and all common sense and to simply come at him, intent on killing him and ripping him to tiny bits… It was not worth the associated risks. Better a powerful pawn than a godly wild card.

It was a simply matter to keep her from ever again going berserk; leave her child alone. As long as nothing so much as _touched_ Vaiden Truae, Ketala would remain a controllable, if somewhat rebellious, weapon.

It was worth noting that Kel'Thuzad did not tell Ner'zhul of Ketala's personal conversation with him while berserk. This was mostly out of a sense of self-preservation. Kel'Thuzad did not want Arthas to question his loyalty. The result of such questioning would have been… _painful_.

* * *

Warden's Cage, Outland

Akama looked up as a magical circle opened up in his small cave, covering the whole of a five foot radius. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he melded carefully into the shadows around him. There were very few beings who knew where or how to find the leader of the Ashtongue Deathsworn. To his knowledge, only one had perfected the long distance teleport. Akama did not trust the particular person.

Sure enough, Kael'Thas Sunstrider emerged from the circle. The elf looked slightly agitated and somewhat tired, and he looked around the cave before realizing that Akama was nowhere in sight. "… I know you are here," the elf said softly. "You rarely leave. I want to talk to you… elder…"

Akama lifted a brow, tilting his head to the side. The humble note in Kael's voice, and his use of the title "elder" were abnormal. In Akama's experience, Kael was elitist, arrogant, and selfish. Curious, but also cautious, the broken draenei did nothing to give away his position.

"It is unnecessary for you to appear. I can deliver my message any way. I know you distrust me, Akama, and you do so with good reason. My mind is not sound. I hardly trust myself. I will be wiping quite a large portion of my memory in a few hours so that I can do no more harm with what I know."

The elf smiled lightly. "I want the same thing you want, Akama. The freedom of my people from Illidan, and from the Burning Legion. I, unfortunately, am incapable of bringing it about. I hear Kil'jaeden's temptations in my sleep, and Illidan ensures I rarely leave my keep. You… on the other hand… There is a dark side to you, but it is one you are still capable of fighting against."

Akama's brows furrowed and he slowly faded out of the shadows, watching Kael with veiled eyes. "What are you alluding to, Prince Sunstrider?"

Kael looked at him, and then smiled slightly. "I know what you are planning, Akama. I know you intend on overthrowing Illidan. I know you intend on releasing Maiev. And I know this not through spies, or through magic scrying, but out of simple intuition. You want to free your people. I ask also, Akama, that you think of mine. I also plan on betraying Illidan, but not in any noble fashion. I… … I am trying to use the Burning Legion against him."

The Draenei stiffened, his eyes narrowing further. "When the time is right, tell him that. It will secure the appearance that you are loyal to him. … And then at least if someone kills me, it will do some good." His smile faded. "I am tired, Akama. I do not have the strength to hold out much longer. What you see now is a brief surge at the end of a very bitter struggle. And when it is over, I will be certain of everything. My manner of "saving" my people will just as likely damn them. Please stop me. And please, when you are finished, have pity on my kind."

The Deathsworn leader was silent a long time, before slowly stepping forward. He came up to the broken prince and set a hand upon his shoulder. "I will see all of Outland free; not just merely my own people." The elf smiled lightly again. He looked exhausted, and his eyes were dull.

"Good. At least someone thinks that way. I've a feeling that I intend on blowing something up," he responded, lifting a hand to rub his forehead. "… There is something else... Something else I should mention. An individual…" he lowered his hand and looked up at the Draenei. "She is a healer. A half troll, half elf. Her name is Zul'vii."

* * *

Yarg! 

Akama's position and plans.  
Sir Zeliek  
The Ashtongue Deathsworn  
Tempest Keep  
The Prophet Skeram  
C'Thun  
The Lay Out of Ahn'Qiraj

All of these things can be found on Wowwiki!


	6. Obfuscation

Yayy! It took me two weeks! That's not too shabby!

Hmm. I don't appear to have a pre-story rant to indulge in... Hmm. Hmm hmm hmm. Hmm. Hmm. Hmm.

AHA! I actually posted the start of my **Children of Auir** fanfiction. It will be a secondary fanfiction, so its chapters will be shorter, and it probably wont be updated as frequently. The fanfiction was drawn from many different places. I don't expect it to be as good as MahiMahi, but I really wanted to contribute to the StarCraft community. The StarCraft fandom is hard to write in without turning a fic into a cheap rip off of _Aliens_. This is due mostly to the fact that Blizzard killed off half of the main characters and didn't leave much of an ending. Go figure. But I shall endure!

* * *

**_Obfuscation_**

* * *

Naxxramas

Her dreams were of blood and carnage. Of death; of destruction; of her. She saw herself slaughtering those that were dear to her. She butchered alliance and horde alike. She butchered the Scarlet Crusade and the Argent Dawn. She even butchered her own undead.

Even when she did not sleep, the visions came to her. They would sneak up on her, obscuring her senses and rendering her helpless. When Vaiden sensed a vision was coming over her, her would come up to her and wrap his arms around her. His touch was the only thing she could be certain of in her waking nightmares. She savored it, and refrained from moving once the visions had taken over. She did not want to hurt her child. She would _never_ hurt her child.

Using him as an anchor, she carefully sifted her mind away from the terrible visions. With great patience, and with some pain, she pushed the nightmares away. The little boy was asleep in her lap, his tiny fingers clinging to her shirt.

He was so beautiful in her eyes… She lowered her head and nuzzled gently against his cheek. Her Vaiden… Her precious, precious Vaiden. He was her world. She founded her daily rituals upon an innate need to protect and nurture him- to one day see him free. She did not understand while Kel'Thuzad made no attempt to harm or pervert the child, but she was glad for it.

Perhaps it proved that parental love truly was powerful. Now, if only she could learn to depend on Vaiden less, and on herself more.

* * *

The Swamp of Sorrows

Most night elves would be revolted to find themselves in a swamp. Furion had no such reaction to the Swamp of Sorrows. He looked around curiously, observing the strange animals that meandered through the marshy landscape. The Swamp was filled to the brim with life and energy. It was refreshing after his trip through the Deadwind Pass.

He found a rock to sit down upon. There he rested a bit, rubbing his face and trying to determine exactly what he was going to do.

Furion had never returned to Tyrande after their conversation. He had said a quick and tearful farewell to his son, and had promised to visit the child in his dreams. The Archdruid had then picked up his traveling cloak, and had set off immediately for Stormwind. From there he had traveled through Duskwood and the Deadwind Pass. Now he had only to walk a short distance more through the swamp, and he would reach The Blasted Lands. The Dark Portal was currently closed. In order for Ember to get through, she would have to somehow open the portal (At least to his knowledge). _That_ dramatic event could not have occurred without someone noticing. If Ember had indeed opened the Dark Portal, Furion would know.

So far, she hadn't. So far, she was probably still on Azeroth. In addition, there was only one way into the Blasted Lands. If he got there before her, he could encounter her before she reached the portal.

Except… He wasn't sure if he should.

He pondered for a long moment, and then blinked as he felt a familiar aura behind him. He lifted his face from his hands, and glanced over his shoulder at the being behind him.

"I suppose you are here to dissuade me from my current course of action?"

Behind him stood a magnificent and yet race-less female, no less than eight feet in height. She had smooth light-brown skin, and green hair streaked with orange. Four almond wings sprouted from her back. She was watching him attentively, and a strange sparkle was in her orange eyes.

Mahimahi. That was what she was called by the kaldorei. She tilted her head to the side, and smiled sadly at his question.

Furion snorted. "She is my daughter," he said in response to her silent acknowledgement.

Mahi winced and bit her lip.

Furion's silver eyes widened and he stood, whirling to face her. "You as well? How can you insinuate that Ember is not my child? She _is_ my daughter!" he reiterated, this time with more conviction.

Mahi looked at the ground a moment. A breeze stirred the area. It blew softly in through the trees, and caused their ropy trunks to sway gently in the wind. The swamp grass ruffled. The swamp water rippled, and reeds made soft piping sounds under the influence of the moving air. Mahi then lifted her head, and gazed quietly at the Archdruid.

He shivered, his hands clenching. "She is my child," he repeated, but his voice cracked. "My child…"

The breeze picked up, whipping leaves and twigs around him. The angel quietly shook her head.

Furion shuddered. His strength gave out and he sank to his knees. "She is my daughter… My little Ember… I sired her… I felt her kicking in Tyrande's womb…" His voice died to a whisper as he lifted his hands to cover his face. "I sensed her first thoughts… I even picked out her name… Ember…" He trembled. "Little Ember…"

Mahi looked at him sadly, and then quietly approached him.

"I couldn't sense her in the dream… I couldn't reach her…" He withdrew slightly into himself, lowering his head and trying not to feel the tears the dripped between his fingers. "I pulled out… I came back… to find her. To find out why I could not sense her… …Ember…"

"_Sometimes, Malfurion, the greatest gift we can give to our children is letting them go."_

"By giving up?" he challenged, lifting his head to look at her. "By abandoning her?"

"_By admitting that it might not be _your_ destiny to save her."_

"I have nature itself to help save-"

"_So does she. More so than even you. You can see it."_

"She is my child. My responsibility. A creature I brought into this world. A creature that nature's order demands I defend and aid. How can I just abandon her?"

"_How can you restrain her, when her very existence is in limbo?"_

He shuddered. "I want what is best for her," he murmured.

"_I am watching over her. I promise you: this is the path that Ember must walk. Her destiny and Illidan's are intertwined. If you allow your love to blind you now, then you shall destroy both of them."_

Furion slumped, defeated. He dropped his face once more into his hands. When he at last had the strength to look up, Mahi was gone. The road to the Deadwind Pass loomed on one side of him. The entrance to the Blasted Lands rose up on the other. He knelt there, looking weakly between the two, trying to decide. On one hand, he could insist that anything could be done with devotion and love. On the other, he could trust in divine providence.

What was the correct choice? Was he arrogant in assuming that he had the devotion necessary to save the child? Was he being foolish not to trust Mahi? And yet as a parent, how could he? How could he give up and not protect Ember? As a parent…

Was he her parent? He didn't know. He was so confused.

The breeze coursed gently around him.

* * *

The Temple of Ahn'Qiraj

"Oh! Let us kill him, brother! He shall be a lovely little sacrifice, don't you think?" Exclaimed one of the giant bug-people as he clapped his hands together in delight.

The other seemed to look a little annoyed, but his lust for blood overrode his disdain for his sibling. He hefted his blade and gave an insectoid smile.

"Yes. Come brother, blood is to be spilled."

"That's it? You aren't even going to ask me how I got this far into your temple grounds?" asked Nathanos in bewilderment, looking up at the two giant Qiraji in surprise. The first of the brothers blinked in surprise, and put a hand to his face in thought.

"Whatever do you mean?" he inquired curiously.

"Well, I mean, I'm an enemy Forsaken standing in the middle of your little base camp. Aren't you even curious as to how I got here? I mean, Skeram, Kri, Yauj, Vem, Sartura, Fankriss, Huhuran- there were all these very angry and powerful people between the entrance and you."

"Seeing as how you entered this chamber without our immediate knowledge, I would think you're just a little assassin- a rogue who snuck past even our most loyal guards. And you shall pay for the intrusion," explained the more militant of the two.

Nathanos glanced down at his apparel. He wondered if perhaps the two brothers were blind, and could not see his animal companions, his axes, and the fact that he was wearing fairly heavy armor. In fact, he lacked any gear that would indicate he was attempting to quietly kill someone in their sleep. "Because, of course, if I felt that I could take down the Twin Emperors of the Qiraji single-handedly, but I couldn't possibly handle their followers?"

"Who knows what goes through the minds of the infidel?" dismissed the militant brother in a harsh voice.

"Wow. Do you have brains in _your_ ass, too?"

"_What?_" cried the first brother in consternation. Nathanos decided to mentally refer to him as the effeminate brother.

"I mean, seriously. 'You do not have the same god as us, so simple logic must be beyond you.' What kind of nonsense _is_ that? That's precisely the attitude that has killed every 'superior' race that this planet has ever seen!"

"Your… your arrogance… rude!" exclaimed the effeminate brother, unable to muster a cohesive reply.

"Our race is ten times what yours will ever be, infidel! Our god gives us an enlightenment you will never have!" growled the more militant of the two, lifting his sword menacingly.

Nathanos snorted in disgust. "Oh please. The Forsaken don't hire mentally deranged architects."

The two brothers blinked.

"Whatever do you mean?" inquired the effeminate one. "When we structured the temple, it was the most glorious structure that the world had ever seen-"

"Wait, wait," Nathanos said, lifting his hands and waving them, trying to get the brother to halt. "_You_ two designed the layout?"

"It was the temple we made to honor our god! Why would we delegate the task to anyone less than ourselves?" growled the militant of the two.

Nathanos snorted, this time mirthfully. He cupped his left elbow in his right hand and held his left hand up to his face, trying to suppress laughter. The militant one glowered and felt along the edge of his blade, while the effeminate one frowned in confusion. "Alright that… that's just sad. Oh boy. I can't even fight you now, I feel too sorry for you people."

"What? What's wrong with the layout?" cried the effeminate one in distress, practically wringing his cloak to pieces in nervousness as he did so.

"What's wrong with the layout?" the ranger exclaimed. "What's wrong with the _layout_? Do I start with the fact that you put your largest defensive weapon, a gigantic worm, in the _back_ of the temple? Or do I start with the fact that you put your holiest of prophets in the _front_?"

"Ouro was a gift from C'Thun himself! We lavish him with the finest food and the sweetest water! He is worshiped with adoration by our people!"

"He can also smash apart a small army!"

"You would not understand- you are an infidel, a nonbeliever!"

"Wouldn't understand? You got Skeram killed! Sure, if you would have put Ouro in the front, I would have killed him first and _then_ killed Skeram, but at _least_ it would have looked like you were trying!"

It was the militant one's turn to stiffen up. "Impossible," he said in a low, deadly voice. "The Prophet would not have fallen to one such as-"

Nathanos pulled the Prophet's head out of his backpack, and showed it to the twin brothers. Both of them turned a sickly white color. "Which brings me to my next complaint!" he continued, so that neither of the brothers had a chance to recover and attack him. "You put C'Thun's lair right next to Skeram!"

"He wanted to be close to his lord," the militant brother snarled, comming out of his daze over Skeram's untimely demise.

"Maybe- just maybe- you should have placed them both in the _back_ of the city, as opposed to the front," observed Nathanos acidly.

"There stands a great wall between the entrance and C'Thun!"

"Which is all fine and dandy, except for the fact that your opponents use siege engines. For the Nether's sake, one is probably there right now, blasting a hole through the wall. Granted, your god can probably take care of himself, so he'll be fine till I get there, but still!"

"Enough of this! You are no doubt stalling in order that allies of yours might harm our god!" To accent his point, the militant one lifted up his sword.

"No- no really, I'm trying to give you guys a heads up that you're both going to die, and you might want to vacate the premises."

"Indeed! And why should you do that?" he snapped.

"Honestly, I feel sorry for you."

"The sentiment will not be returned when our minions are feasting on your bones! Fankriss will enjoy devouring your tainted-"

So Nathanos pulled out Fankriss the Unyielding's head as well. Of course… he had yielded, the ranger observed. So a more apt name might have been be Fankriss the Yielding. The militant one stiffened and hesitated.

"Ah… So now you are starting to understand how I've gotten this far into the temple grounds," Nathanos purred softly. He set down both heads and reached into his pack again. "Perhaps you can answer a question for me, then. Most of the various insects and insectoid creatures that I have seen all look different from one another. I was wondering if there was just one Qiraji species norm, or if you're just a collection of species, or-"

"You blasphemous cretin-"

"Because I thought you two looked vaguely similar to those flying wasp women-" he noted, as he pulled Battleguard Satura's head out of his pack. You have the same general shape and the same beetle horns growing out of your back- although the sickle claws are strange-"

"_Satura?_" the militant one murmured, his eyes widening.

"And also, what's with all the bugs that have the title of 'princess'? Generally, don't you only get that appellation if you're the daughter of a ruling entity? Are they your kids or something? Because then that's just odd- what were you _sleeping_ with? I mean I know you people look like insects, but humans look like monkeys and orcs look like pigs, and well, let's just say there aren't any razorbacks titled "Little Warchief" running around. Well, there might be some named that, but certainly none _titled_."

The militant one looked enraged, confused, and flabbergasted- all in one.

"And for that matter, if you two are so pious, why did you place yourselves in the back of the temple grounds next to a giant sand worm, and your gods, children, and prophets in the front?"

At that point, the effeminate brother just burst out crying. Having his temple layout insulted, as well as knowing that he might be responsible for the death of his holiest of prophets, was too much for his delicate sensibilities to handle. The militant one flew into a rage. Completely berserk, he charged after Nathanos and attempted to dispose of him with wild hacks of his massive blade. The Ranger Lord turned and nimbly avoided the blows, fleeing for the far side of the room. The militant brother pursued. The effeminate one stayed behind and smothered his face into his cloak, still crying. When the real battle began, the two brothers were separated by too great a distance; they could not help one another.

The Emperors were tricky foes. From what Nathanos had gathered about them by reading ancient battle accounts, they could heal themselves miraculously quickly if in contact with one another. In order to tackle this problem, Nathanos had split their adventuring party up along faction lines. The Horde side of the party took on the effeminate brother, while the Alliance side took on the militant one. What the ancient battle accounts had not mentioned, however, was that the militant brother was immune to magical attacks, and the effeminate brother was immune to physical ones.

Seeing this, Nathanos made ready to send all physical attackers against the militant brother and all magical attackers against the effeminate one. Luckily, he was unable to do so before the brothers suddenly changed places on him. The effeminate one stood where the militant once had, and vise versa. After the brothers pulled that particular stunt, Nathanos decided not to mix up the faction-groups. This left an ample supply of magical and physical fighters at each brother. The two different kinds of combatants could then quickly trade places when the brothers switched. The combatants who could not currently affect their target brother could spend their time resting.

This combat strategy left Nathanos with large periods of battle time during which he was mostly useless; he could not cast magic, after all. He spent his free time killing the mutated insect pets of the two emperors, and relaxing over a good book. Simultaneously he shouted out orders to the two faction groups in Common, Orcish, and sometimes Gibberish. The last was so that the Necromancer might understand what was going on. It also infuriated the Twin Emperors. His party mates mostly forgave him for his indolence. They were used to it. After all, he was the one who managed to figure out how to defeat every monstrosity they came across.

* * *

Duskwood

"And on your left, we have scenic Duskwood, land of the dead people!"

"Dead people?"

"Yup. Everyone here is dead. And any people who aren't dead contribute to the number of dead in one way or another."

"By dying or by killing things?"

"Right."

"I like killing things."

"I know you do. Ironically, there's a portal to the Emerald Dream here- right next to the Blasted Lands, which have a portal to the Outlands. Go figure. People must like to keep all of their extra -dimensional portals together or something."

Ember giggled and then blinked, looking at the land ahead of them. It was gray, and devoid of life. "What is… that?"

"That? That's Deadwind Pass. We'll try to get through as fast as possible, and without attracting any trouble."

"Trouble?"

"Yes. There are all kinds of spooks in the pass. Karazhan, Medivh's old tower is there. It's filled with plenty of dreadfully unpleasant things."

"Medivh?" The name sounded familiar, but Ember could not place it. Inside, she could feel her inner demon stirring. It was an unpleasant sensation.

"Medivh was like you, Ember. He was possessed by Sargeras. Archimonde's boss."

The little girl blinked up at Zul'vii, and then stopped walking, eyeing the gray canyon ahead with great uncertainty. The half troll looked back at her, and smiled.

"He doesn't live there anymore. It's okay; I won't let anything hurt you."

"I don't want to go there," Ember murmured, her brows furrowing in thought. She could just make out the tip of Karazhan from where she stood.

Zul'vii looked up at the tower, and then looked down at Ember. She knelt down and gently took the little girl's face in her hands. "Hey, you listen to me. The portal to Outland is on the _other_ side of that pass. If we don't go through, we cannot get to Illidan."

Ember frowned, and looked up at Zul'vii in dismay. "But…"

Zul'vii cocked her head to the side, silently asking Ember to continue. The little girl grunted and shook her head, unable to properly voice what she felt.

"… I know you don't want to go. And it would probably be for the best if you never had to go through the pass… But Outland is filled with demons. It's been devastated by them. If you cannot be strong against Archimonde through a simple barren gorge, how will you survive in a land ruled by the demonic?"

The demon inside her was coming fully alert, intrigued by something ahead of them. "Something's wrong," Ember whispered. "Something-" The little girl cut off and gasped. The area around them went very, very still for a moment, and then a shockwave exploded from somewhere beyond the pass. The air was filled what sounded like a sharp and endless musket shot. When the noise at last died down, Zul'vii looked bewildered towards the pass.

"Well, whaddaya know? Someone beat us to the portal." She was unprepared for when Ember bull-rushed her, slicing with her mother's stolen warglaive, and screaming like a feral beast. The glaive cut deep into the hall-trolls leg and she yelped and jumped away from the frenzied girl. "Ember? What are you doing?"

The girl screamed, ripping apart a young tree between her and Zul'vii and then rushing towards the half-troll again. Zul'vii blinked and drew out an axe. She batted away the warglaive and grabbed the girl roughly by the collar. She quickly and deftly tossed the small child into a tree, and then began running in the opposite direction.

Ember was not phased by the blow, and followed full speed. The wound in the half-troll's leg sealed quickly, and after a few seconds ceased to impede her running. Zul'vii had seen Ember rage before. She understood that the girl fell into instinctive anger in order to keep Archimonde from controlling her, and so she led the small child into a pack of fairly weak undead. Duskwood was filled with fairly weak undead, after all. While Ember fought off zombies, skeletons, and ghouls, Zul'vii slipped off into the shadows. She continued to follow Ember from battle to battle, marveling in the child's strength and endurance.

Only when Ember finally collapsed from full-blown exhaustion did Zul'vii approach her. The half-troll quickly scooped up the demon-plagued child, and began heading back for the Deadwind Pass. If she was lucky, she could get to and through the pass before the little girl awakened. If the portal to Outland was indeed open for all to walk through, Zul'vii wanted to be there to make sure things didn't get out of hand.

* * *

The Temple of Ahn'Qiraj

"Was that really all that necessary?"

"What do you mean?"

"The conversation you held with them before the battle."

"I got them separated, didn't I?"

"Yes, but you made one of them burst out crying. Was that really necessary?"

"Think of it as me getting vengeance for Skeram, a payment for being lousy emperors."

"If that is so, why aren't you killing them?"

"I feel sorry for them."

Ras blinked and glanced at the Twin Emperors. They were chained to opposite sides of their room. Both were bloody messes. The magic-user was still crying. "You consider this to be mercy?"

"Mm. And a punishment for being so stupid."

"Wouldn't it be better just to kill them, so they cannot be stupid again?"

"I already thought that out, and came out with a better solution; I castrated them during the battle. Didn't you notice the one with the big sword was knocked out by pain for the majority of the fight?"

"_What_?"

"Yes. I felt it was the best way to eliminate their genes from the gene pool. Now they can't have stupid children."

"Wha- you- but- …Sometimes, you disturb me."

"I can also castrate you, if you'd like."

"… That's unnecessary."

"Certain?"

"You seem to have a personal vendetta against the Qiraji."

"I cannot abide stupidity. The temple layout was so disastrous that it offended me personally."

"I see." Ras was just about to walk away when he suddenly thought of something. "Wait. If you intended for them to survive, you would be assuming that they would eventually break free of their bonds."

"Yes?"

"But if they broke free of their bonds, they could heal one another. Of all wounds."

"By then, C'Thun will be dead. I also assume they'll simply kill themselves out of shame."

"You seem to be leaving a lot up to chance."

"You seem to think I care about defeating these things once and for all. I am only interested in destroying C'Thun. When he is gone, the Horde and Alliance should turn their attention back to the Plaguelands."

The ex-lich stiffened, and focused all his attention on the Ranger Lord. Nathanos had not spoken of the undead lands for a long time. "You plan on returning as soon as this is done?"

"Of course. I serve the Dark Lady, do I not? And she is currently being held captive by Arthas. I am also interested in what damage Varimathras and the Apothecaries have done while I have been gone."

"Ketala," Ras said quietly.

Nathanos snorted. "I will, of course, deal with Kel'Thuzad."

"Ketala," Ras repeated. The ranger eyed him, and then just sneered and started walking again, heading further into the enemy base. "I still do not understand why you do not kill them," Ras called, gesturing back to the emperors. "It would be simpler."

"You also do not understand why I do not kill you," Nathanos answered. "I have my reasons for everything."

"The rest of the group is still resting, Nathanos. We cannot yet move on."

The ranger glanced back at him and smirked. "As I said, I have my reasons for everything." And with that, he continued to walk. Ras hesitated for a long moment before following to see what the Forsaken was up to.

* * *

The Swamp of Sorrows

When Ember at last awakened from her rage-induced slumber, she found she was sitting on a rock in the middle of a swamp. Zul'vii was not far from her, and was looking straight at her. The half-troll 's wings were unfurled, and were splayed around her most elegantly.

Ember pounced on one of the wings and bit hard into its tendrils. Zul'vii grunted but did not object, closing her eyes as Ember ground her teeth back and forward. After a moment, she stood up, cradling the girl in her wings. Ember growled at first, and then slowly relaxed by kneading her fingers into the delicate tendrils. Zul'vii endured. When Ember was in a better state of mind, she reached forward and gently rubbed the little girl's back with a hand.

"There… are you alright?" she asked softly.

Ember just growled .

"We're very close now," she continued. "Only one more land to trek across, and then we will be in Outland. Only one more land, and then you'll be in the same world as Illidan again."

This seemed to soothe the little girl. Zul'vii gently stroked her hair, and then pulled the little girl into her lap. She never once tried to pull her agonized wing tendrils away from the little girl. "We're almost there," she said soothingly. "We made it through the Deadwind pass already."

Ember closed her eyes. Only after a long time did she open them and release Zul'vii's wing tendrils.

"Are you afraid?" the half troll inquired.

She nodded lightly. Zul'vii could say nothing in response. She might have had some advice to give if Ember's fear wasn't well-founded. After a moment, she just carefully stood up. "Ey, it's not like it's the end of the world!" she said jovially, giving Ember a gentle bounce. Ember grunted and growled. "Oh grr to you too. For your information, I get enough angst from Illidan. I don't need it from you." Ember snorted and Zul'vii laughed, plopping the elfin child on her shoulders. "C'mon. We don't have that much farther to go, and there is a friend waiting for us at the end. Look, see that pass ahead? Through there is the Blasted Lands. It's only so far away."

Ember just clung rather painfully to Zul'vii's hair, and rested her cheek against the half-troll's mane. "Zul'vii?" she inquired.

"Ya Ember?"

"What will you do when we get to Outland?"

"Mmm. I dunno. I'll help you find Illidan, and get in an argument or two with him. There might or might not be a period of reconciliation. We'll see what happens from there."

"Why did Illidan leave? Was he trying to get away from me?"

Zul'vii frowned. "I don't think so. Illidan is… a complicated person. He sometimes overreacts. Maybe he was upset over this argument you tell me he had with Furion."

"So he left because of Furion?"

"…I think Illidan left because of Illidan. I don't think he could stay anymore. He fights with Furion, yes… But it's not Furion's _fault_. Your father is a good person. And Illidan has let him down many times before. I think Furion's simply afraid to trust him."

"Why? Illidan is good."

Zul'vii sighed. "Only sometimes, Ember. Illidan can be really bad, too." Ember frowned. "That's why he's so good at taking care of you. He knows what it is like; he understands what is happening to you. And part of Illidan _is_ good. That part wants to help you."

"… Why are you his friend?"

The half-troll grinned. "Cause no one else would be. So I volunteered."

"Has he been bad to you?"

"He tried to kill me once, but I forgave him. I understand Illidan better than other people. I have little to lose, and so I am not afraid to trust him. But your father has to take care of a great many people. He has to take care of nature, and you, and your mommy and brother… He has to take care of all the night elves. And Illidan has done bad things to the people Furion is charged with protecting. He is afraid that Illidan will do them again. And he has a good reason to be afraid."

"… Why does he do bad things?"

"Well, for one, Illidan is demonic- just like Archimonde. That's like asking why _you_ do bad things. Demons do bad things; it's in the job description. But Illidan also has a tough time caring about other people. Many times, he does things that help himself out, rather than things that help the people around him. Sometimes he even helps himself out while hurting other people in the process."

Zul'vii shifted Ember's weight around a bit as they approached the pass, so that she might carry the girl more easily. The trees were thinning out. After a moment, she started talking again. "But Illidan doesn't see it that way. He feels the whole world is against him, and that people should feel blessed if selfish actions he takes benefit them. Sometimes, he really does try to do the right thing, but by then it's too late. People are already used to seeing his selfish and uncaring side. They don't want to be hurt by him, and they know he's acted poorly in the past. So they don't believe him when he says he wants to be good."

Ember just thought quietly to herself.

"But Illidan has his good side. He shares it with you, from what you have told me… And sometimes, he even shares it with me. And that good side shouldn't be given up on. Just like the good side in you."

Ember blinked, looking curiously down at the half-troll. After awhile she looked at the pass. "I miss Fyrak," the little girl mumbled.

"Yeah. I know. But we couldn't have snuck him across an entire ocean without people asking many questions of us. Furion was looking for us very hard- even so much as to ask the orcs and goblins for aid. There was quite a reward for your safe return. We would have been found."

"Yeah…"

"Well, we'll find you a new pet sooner or later," Zul'vii remarked. "Outland is filled with all kinds of interesting and dangerous things, or so Illidan tells me." This seemed to brighten the little girl's spirits. "Things'll be fine. Let's just get to that portal."

" 'Kay."

* * *

Naxxramas

"_I am here…"_

Zeliek stiffened, and blinked in alarm as he felt another mind wrap around his.

"_It's alright… Relax …"_

Immediately he lashed out at the mind, calling the holy light to barricade his thoughts. Every instinct screamed for him to defend himself. His mind was the last thing he still possessed; he would not forsake-

The voice in his head chuckled. _"I am not of the Lich King. Do you not recognize my mind?"_ He shivered, his eyes widening.

"_Ke…Ketala…"_

"_Indeed. Calm. I will not hurt you." _It took a very great effort of will for him to obey. He swallowed and closed his eyes tightly as her mind gently enveloped his.

"_What are you doing? Kel'Thuzad-"_

"_He cannot hear us. Calm."_

"_He owns me! He will know- he will-"_

"_I am very, very good at this, Sir Zeliek. I have hidden the truth from him in tens of thousands of minds. I can most certainly hide it in yours. Have faith."_

Her last words struck him, and he fell mentally silent.

"_Besides, what can he do to you that he has not already done? He has stolen your body, and he cannot steal your mind. What left is there for him to take?"_

"… _What do you want?"_

"_Friendship."_

Zeliek blinked his eyes opened. He cocked his head to the side, surprised at her answer. Friendship? The word and its implications sounded so strange, now. Friendship hailed from a time when men grew up and died for one another like brothers; when great kings lead their people to battle against monsters; when all that mattered was the Light, and bringing justice to all parts of the world. Friendship was not a thing born of Naxxramas. Undeath destroyed friendship. It made old comrades devour one another in mindless hate. It encouraged unthinking servitude, and a loveless greed for power.

"_That is why friendship is so important. It is the only tool left to combat undeath. And you are undead, are you not?"_

Zeliek grit his teeth together and looked off to the side in shame, his hands clenching tightly on his reins. She laughed slightly, but there was no jeering in her tone.

"_So am I. I have been dead for most of my existence. And yet here I am, begging friendship from you."_

He lifted his head a bit, considering her words. _"I am dead. I wait only for my destruction, hoping that my faith shall save my spirit when I pass from this world. There is nothing left. I am broken and defiled. I have slain all my comrades, and destroyed everything that I once loved. I am a monster. There is nothing left for me- undeath has taken me. I simply hope that by keeping control of my mind, I shall make it easier for others to kill me."_

Again, she laughed. Her laughter was surprising in its tone- containing something oddly sprightly. _"You think that only because you became a paladin _before_ death. But I became a paladin _after_ death. Everything I have known of friendship, honor, or faith; I developed long after my heart first ceased beating. And I tell you now that there is still hope."_

"_How…?"_

"_I will tell you, if you will listen, my friend."_

He was silent, trying to open his mind to her words.

"_Let me tell you of my adopted father, Sir Zeliek. His name is Kel'Thuzad."_

* * *

The Blasted Lands

It took many, many days for Zul'vii and Ember to reach the Dark Portal. The Blasted Lands were not that large, but the suffusion of demonic activity in the area had Ember constantly on edge. She slipped into her berserk state quite often. Zul'vii simply fought with the little girl until Ember dropped of exhaustion. It was too dangerous to allow Ember to wander around unchecked. Fortunately for Zul'vii, she knew the area quite well, and was on reasonable terms with the humans of Nethergard keep. She knew where she was going, and she knew exactly how to avoid all the unpleasant groups of people that could be found in the area.

When the duo finally reached the Dark Portal, the massive structure was open for all to see. It was night when they finally came within sight of it, but its surface glowed a sickly green. There were signs of a massive struggle all over the ground. The rocky remains of infernals were scattered all about. There was no wood in the Blasted Lands, and no means by which to burn the corpses in the area. Horde and Alliance bodies were gathered up so that they might be sent home for burial. Demon corpses were left to be picked apart by carrion eaters.

Zul'vii was glad for the night. With luck, she and Ember would be able to get through the Dark Portal without incident. She crept quietly through the battlefield, using her roguish abilities to their fullest extent. There was a large army camped out before the portal. She could hear voices echoing down to her from the camp, as well as the caws and snorts of various carrion creatures lurking among the dead.

The half-troll stepped lightly among the many bodies. Troll, Orc, Forsaken, Tauren… Human, gnome, dwarf, night elf… Here and there, she saw a strange creature with hooves and tentacles writhing out of its face. She also saw a couple high elves. It seemed as if every race on Azeroth had come to fight off the demonic menace. Zul'vii carefully climbed over the body of a slain doomguard and then paused, staring at something nestled among the corpses before her. She could feel Ember stiffen.

Before her, wedged between a fallen infernal and an orc catapult, was an Eredar. His body was torn and broken, twisted torturously around one of the siege engine's spiked wheels. Zul'vii took a breath, and continued down the side of the doomguard. It was around this point that she realized that the trapped demon was still breathing. He lifted his head weakly, looking up at the half-troll as she drew near. Blood oozed down from his lips and discolored his blue toned skin. He seemed so close to death that he could not properly react to what he was seeing.

His gaze slipped down, resting on Ember. He shifted slightly and moaned in pain as blood spurted around one of the catapult spikes. "Destroyer…" he whispered. "F-forgive… my failure…" Ember's eyes widened and she shrank back from the Eredar, her whole body quivering. Zul'vii snorted, hefting one of her axes and moving towards the demon to finish it off. It lifted its eyes to hers once more, fighting back waves of agony. "Healer…" it whispered as she drew near. "Will you not save me?" She paused, surprised, and stared down at the warlock demon in confusion. He twitched, his brows furrowing and his teeth clenching in pain. "Healer…" he repeated, slowly reaching a gnarled hand out towards her. "C-Curiato…"

The use of that name surprised Zul'vii. She had only ever heard it spoken by Mahi, Tyrande, or Malfurion. She hesitated too long. As she lowered her axe, regarding the Eredar with confusion and curiosity, it gave a tiny chuckle. Its arm drooped, and it promptly expired, its life's blood staining the ground. Zul'vii shuddered and wrapped her one arm more tightly around Ember.

"Don't think about it," she murmured. She turned, and began walking around the broken catapult and the dead Eredar. Again, she headed towards the city. When the duo drew nearer, she saw that the war band was made of Horde, Alliance, and Argent Dawn members. Even a few members of the Cenarion Circle were there, rushing to and fro and trying to heal whomever they could.

From the shouts around her, Zul'vii could gather that something unpleasant had opened up the Dark Portal. Immediately, Alliance and Horde members had rushed to the scene to defend their world against the demonic onslaught. This army was the rear guard of an even greater force that had pushed on into the portal. Even now, the front lines were fighting in Outland, attempting to drive back the waves of demons.

Zul'vii had a reasonable grasp on voodoo magic, and she had examined many of the extra-dimensional portals that Illidan used for travel to Outland. She had been planning merely to use the portal as an anchoring point for a short-lived dimensional teleport to Outland. It would have been closed soon afterwards. Now, with the portal open for all to walk through, things were much more convenient. If she could but reach its shimmering surface, Zul'vii could walk through it without effort. Then she simply had to sneak Ember past demonic lines.

And Zul'vii was good at sneaking.

But apparently not good enough. As she neared the portal, she came across a healing tent where the wounded were being tended to. Zul'vii did not notice a particular feature about this healing tent until it was far too late. At the side of the tent was a raised pool of fresh water. A night elf had drawn a bucket from its surface and was splashing his face with the liquid. She did not recognize his haggard countenance, or the slight slump of his shoulders. But when he lifted his head, and his eyes alighted upon her, they recognized each other immediately.

Malfurion Stormrage stood up quickly, his eyes shifting down to Ember. The little girl's eyes were wide. She was staring at him in apprehension and distress. Zul'vii turned, locked her gaze on the portal, and bolted for it.

"Wait! Wait- by Elune, I _beg_ of you Zul'vii! I may never see her again! _Please_!"

The night elf's voice was suffused with despair as he beseeched her to wait. His tone caused the half-troll to pause and look back at him in question.

The old druid had taken a few steps towards them, and one of his hands was raised in a pleading fashion. "Please, Zul'vii…"

"No! NO!" Ember screamed, her claws digging into Zul'vii's arms. "No take me back!"

"Ember, I am your-"

"_NO!_" the little girl shrieked desperately. "Not take me! Not yours! Not mine! Hate you! _HATE YOU!_"

Furion jerked backwards as if struck, anguish blossoming over his face. "Ember-"

"Leave me alone! Leave me _ALONE_!"

The night elf just stared at Ember for a long moment, shock written on his face. His experiences over the last few days rushed in on him then- all the death, and uncertainty, and suffering. He thought of all those he had just healed, and of those who had died in his arms. He thought of what Mahi and Tyrande had said. He thought of Illidan. At last, he could not stand thinking anymore. He quietly turned away, and walked in the opposite direction. When he reached the end of the healing tent, he slipped behind it, and sank down to knees on the unnaturally crimson soil.

Ember shuddered and shivered, clinging tightly, painfully, to Zul'vii's arms. The half-troll watched Malfurion depart, slowly realizing that if he had come to stop them, he would not have given up so easily. "… Ember, I don't think he was trying to take you back." The little girl looked up at her, her teeth clenched and her face a mask of distress. "… I think we should talk to him…"

"No! I hate him! I hate him!" she wailed fiercely.

"I will not let him take you," Zul'vii murmured.

"The portal is right there!"

"It will still be there when we are done. He will not."

"Good!"

"Ember…"

The little girl trembled, unsure. Zul'vii stroked her back for a moment, firmly and somewhat roughly. The jarring motion soothed the violent child. When the half-troll felt that Ember was in a slightly better mood, she murmured, "Let us give him one chance." And then, very slowly, she proceeded to follow the archdruid. Ember did not protest.

Furion did not hear the footsteps until he could see the edges of Zul'vii's feet. When she knelt, he looked up at her. His green hair was slightly ragged from the last few days, and his violet face sported many lines of worry and pain. Zul'vii said nothing. She looked down at the little girl in her arms, and then gently set Ember on the ground.

Ember looked up at Furion warily. When he turned his gaze to her, she growled slightly, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. He winced, and then slowly reached towards her. She bit him. He stiffened and sighed lightly, moving his other hand to gently brush over her cheek. His acceptance of her biting surprised her, and she released his other hand. He gently cupped her face.

"You have your mother's chin," he murmured softly.

Uncertain of what to do, Ember just stood still. Furion was almost a complete stranger to her. He had tried to show her affection and care upon his return, but his love had injured her more than anything else. This gentle acceptance of her aggressive persona was… new.

"… I am sorry I could not help you Ember… that I could not better fulfill the role of a father. I am sorry for driving away Illidan… I am sorry for everything." She blinked, confused and surprised. He leaned closer to her, and gently took one of her hands. Out of curiosity, she opened it, and allowed him to place a small, hard seed within her palm. "I made this for you… Something to protect you once you cross through the portal."

Ember looked up at him, and then looked down at the seed in her palm. Immediately she could sense something strange about the tiny thing, and she carefully closed her hand around it. Vines sprouted from between her fingers, wrapping around her hand and wrist. Intrigued, Ember stretched out her hand to get a better look at it. Small vines twirled around her fingers before each digit was wholly encased in a sheath of flexible wood. Wood also built up around the back of her hand, and then further down her forearm, fitting to its shape like a glove.

Ember twiddled her fingers, surprised to see how easily they bent. She lifted her other hand to feel over the pointed fingertips… and was surprised to find that each was as sharp as a mithril dagger. It was a claw. A battle-claw. And he'd made it for her. She looked up at Furion in bewilderment, before gazing down at the beautiful weapon. She turned her wrist back and forward with ease, and felt over the smooth wood of the protective gauntlet.

"I just want you to be safe…" she heard him saying. "If I cannot protect you, then at least I can equip you for what you will find in Outland." The little girl looked up at him. She was silent a moment, and then she lunged forward and hugged him, being careful not to hurt him with the battle-claw. He stiffened and his eyes widened in surprise. After a moment, he moved his arms around her, and leaned his cheek against her hair. "Be safe…"

"Thank you," she murmured.

He smiled weakly, and then gently kissed the top of her head. "I love you, my little Ember."

"I know."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and then released her. He gently placed a seed in her other hand, and that arm too was covered in claws and a protective gauntlet. "If you hurry, you should be able to get past the demons without incident." He looked up at Zul'vii. "I fear Illidan is not faring well. I have taken incursions into the Emerald Dream, for I am much needed there. In my fight against the Nightmare, I have sensed him. Madness is gripping him, Zul'vii… I fear that he might be lost. I fear that our bond will again be tested; that bond is now very frail."

Zul'vii flinched, and nodded. "I will be careful, Furion. I will not march into Illidan's lair without first discerning the best way to approach him. And I will do all I can for both your brother and your daughter."

"Thank you. Good luck… And tell Illidan that I am sorry."

"I will."

Ember looked up from her second battle-claw, noticing that she and Zul'vii were about to leave. She looked at Furion a last time, and then stood on her toes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"Goodbye, daddy." And then, just as quickly, she and Zul'vii were gone, heading for the portal. He stared after them, uncertain of what to do, and at once feeling great sorrow and great relief.

And something much more complicated…

She'd called him "daddy"…

He wondered what that word meant to Ember. He wondered what it meant to him. He wondered what it meant to Mahi. The breeze coursed gently around him.

* * *

Yarg! Review or I shall not update! Or at least that's what I keep telling myself! 


	7. Peculiarities

I don't know if anyone noticed, but in chapter 5, when Nathanos is musing about the layout of Ahn'Qiraj, he thinks the following:

"If only there was some way to just delete walls, or something…"

This is a reference to the guild "Overrated" that had 75 of its members banned awhile back for using hack programs to delete the wall between C'Thun and Skeram in order to get to C'Thun faster.

* * *

_**Peculiarities**_

* * *

_**  
**_

The Temple of Ahn'Qiraj

"Don't move," Nathanos cautioned. He stepped forward very carefully, setting each foot down with a certain elegance and grace.

"What is this place?" Ras queried, looking around at the vast, sandy enclosure in which the two now found themselves.

"You'll see," the ranger answered, his eyes scanning the sand around him. His response intrigued Ras, and the ex-lich cocked his head to the side. Nathanos had been acting strangely for the past few days. There was something different about him- something that Ras could not pinpoint but could, nevertheless, perceive.

If Ras didn't know any better, he would say that the ranger was acting almost… light-hearted.

Nathanos spent a long time moving out into the center of the arena, before finally seeming satisfied with the sand around him. The ranger then reached into his pack and pulled out a rock. He hefted the rock for a moment, and tossed and caught it once. The Ranger winked at Ras- how strange- and then gave the rock a toss, sending it skipping over the sand.

The ground rumbled.

A massive mound of earth and rocks exploded up from the sand and charged forward, heading straight for the rock. This happened so quickly that Ras hardly had time to register it. The shockwaves from the massive earthy displacement actually knocked him over. Nathanos grinned fiendishly and charged straight towards the moving mound.

Ras watched in amazement from his fallen position. There was indeed something different about his ranger companion. The mage had been seeing it more and more, ever since they had first entered the temple. There was something… something freer about Nathanos. Something youthful. Something almost elfin. His feet did not sink into the sand; they hardly left a footprint. He moved so as not to be toppled by the earth's chaotic heaving. Instead, he managed to flit right up the side of the mound, and followed it from above as it headed towards the tossed stone.

The mound altered. From the front of it exploded a massive and sinuous red body; a great worm, thrusting its way out of the ground with amazing force. As its head first broke through the sand, Nathanos grabbed onto its chitin plates and went along for the ride. Seconds later, he was three hundred feet in the air, and seated on the back of a very large and angry sandworm. A sandworm named Ouro.

And he _laughed_.

* * *

Theramore

Kallah looked up at the dark and foreboding clouds above her. A raindrop landed upon her nose and she giggled, wiping it off with her sleeve. A deep rumble echoed across the sky. In the distance, she could see tiny flashes of lightning, far out on the sea. If either of Kallah's parents were to check up on where their daughter was currently located, they probably would have had a minor heart attack.

The little girl had climbed out of her window, dropped three feet onto the roof of a lower portion of Theramore Castle, and had walked out on the roof some ways. She was sitting and watching the coming storm roll in. Before her lay the Theramore Docks. The air was unusually still, and the boats were sitting quietly in their moorings.

The view was astounding. It looked like a magnificent, panoramic oil painting. The mighty clouds were heading straight forward, and she could see the shadow they cast on the waters as they raced closer and closer to the docks. Another droplet of water landed on her- this time bouncing off of her cheek. A small breath of wind tossed her soft black hair back from her face.

"Rain, rain, come to play, stay away another day…  
"Make rivers swell, and seas rebel, I ask the storm that I can smell.  
"Boats creak and clack, and sails are slack, and all just waits for you to act.  
"Um… something, something, something, something, la-la, la-la, la-la, la-la!"  
"Be wild and free, both storm and sea, and always sailors' love you'll be."

The clouds passed over the sun, and a burst of cool wind whipped past the tower. The boats began to toss in their moorings. The tolling of bells could be heard, and in the distance she could hear sailors calling. Behind the tower, swamp trees rustled and shifted. A tingly goose-pimply feeling rushed over Kallah, and she giggled when a lightning bolt rippled through the sky, stretching down to kiss the ocean. The ensuing thunder rumbled and crackled and boomed for a good half a minute.

When the peal of thunder ended, the little girl was made aware of boots crunching on the roof's shingles. She turned just in time to see her grandfather come up beside her, his eyes focused on the incoming storm. Blinking up at him, she wondered what he was doing out on the roof. It occurred to her, after a moment of contemplation, that he might have come to watch the storm come in, the same as she had.

Kallah had not seen her grandfather since that day at the Koi pond, when he crushed her toy battleship. Given those parting circumstances, she wasn't sure what to make of the man. He broke toys, yelled a lot, and always seemed to be grumpy. Those weren't the characteristics of a very nice person. Still, there was something about him…

"Grandpa?"

He jumped as if someone had pinched him. Immediately, he turned to look at her. The expression on his face made it seem as if he had recently eaten something very bad-tasting. She blinked in confusion. To Kallah's knowledge, this was not how adults normally acted. It made her feel as if she had done something wrong, and she ducked her head and bit her lip in confusion. His hands clenched and unclenched several times. At last he spoke:

"What are you doing out here?" he asked darkly.

Kallah blinked, and then pointed at the storm. "Watching -" but she broke off as quite suddenly it began to rain, drenching her and the Admiral thoroughly. She blinked and giggled before finishing brightly, "Watching the storm come in!" She turned her face into the rain and shut her eyes for a moment, and then laughed and looked up at the black clouds. "It is so pretty!"

Daelin stared at her as the rain pattered down against him. In the overcast her skin was a dull gray color. He could almost pretend that her skin was not green, but white. Her face was utterly cherubic, her expressive eyes darting around to follow the strikes of distant lightning. After a minute she looked up at him again, a delighted smile on her face.

"Do you like the rain?" she asked innocently. He didn't answer. She watched him a moment, and then closed her eyes again and let the rain patter over her face. After a moment she stood up and hopped lightly across the wet shingles. She held her arms out and twirled around, laughing happily. "Rain, rain, come and play… Stay away some other day!" Her voice… Her voice was so similar… "Make rivers swell, and sea rebel, I ask the storm that I can smell!" By the light, she was so similar to Jaina… "Boats creak and clack, and sails are slack, and all just waits for you to act!"

How many times had that foolish girl climbed out onto the roof to watch a storm come in? How often had she rushed to the docks to watch the sailors reach shore? How many questions had she asked about the hulls of ships?

"Um… Hmm…" Kallah paused, stumped. For some reason, she just couldn't remember the words to the next verse of the song. She knew there were five- she was certain of it! And the last one was about loving the storm and sea… But the middle one? What was it?

"Send wind so shrill…" Kallah jumped in surprise as a wind-roughened baritone murmured out the elusive words. She looked up at her grandfather. He was staring at her, face blank, raindrops running down his gray cheek. "Disrupt the still," he continued, his eyes moving to look out at the sea, "and please, our sails and nets, refill…"

She looked at him a moment, trying to understand what was going through his head. After a moment, she continued with the song: "Be wild and free… both storm and sea…" She trailed off at the end, trying to bait him to continue the final verse. For a moment, it seemed as if her efforts were in vain. And then he continued her rhyme, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the pattering of the rain.

"And always sailors' love you'll be…" The clouds shifted and rolled. Thunder rumbled gently across the sky. After a moment, he slowly turned his head and looked down at the girl again. She smiled hopefully at him, and then hopped up to him and took one of his hands, as if to encourage him to dance with her. The movement surprised him. Without even thinking, he jerked his hand back and then roughly shoved the half-breed child away from him.

Rough shoves from undead warriors tend to be rather powerful- at least when applied to toddlers. Kallah hit the ground a few feet away from him, yelped, and rolled a few more, ending up just at the edge of the flat part of the roof. Any further, and she would have rolled over the side. Had that happened, she probably would have continued to roll down the sloped side of the roof, and simply fallen off the castle all together. The Admiral stiffened and his jaws tightened in consternation. A part of him insisted that the little abomination deserved to be thrown off the side of the tower.

A part of him hadn't meant to hit her so hard…

The girl didn't move for a second. Then she slowly shifted and lifted her head. Her lower lip was quivering. There were scratches on her face from the shingles. She drew one of her arms to her in a way that suggested it was hurt, and looked up at him. He said nothing, and merely stared at her. The rain made it difficult to tell, but he was rather certain she was crying.

Kallah eventually tried to get up, favoring all her scrapes and bruises. She quivered a bit, her balance unsteady, and then a shingle gave way from beneath her as she attempted to stand. She shrieked, and went rear-first off the flat of the roof. Immediately she began clawing at the shingles of the sloped section of the roof, squealing in terror. The shingles were slick, and the slope of the roof was at a 50 degree angle. She only had four feet to slide, and that would be it- she'd reach the end of the roof altogether.

Her fingers caught on a loose shingle. It held for but a moment and then snapped. She screamed, scrambling desperately for any handhold. Another loose shingle. Snap. Her feet met empty air.

There was a loud scraping noise beside her. She could hear shingles shattering and tumbling down the side of the roof. Then something had seized her around the middle, and before she knew it, she was clinging to her grandfather's chest as he clawed his way up the slope.

Daelin grunted and focused his eyes entirely on the lip of the roof above him. There were advantages to being undead; one being that he could push his body in ways that would normally be impossible. His fingers were buried into the shingles like claws. He could entirely ignore the fact that he was pressing his digits to the bone. Daelin grunted, lifting a hand up over the lip and digging his fingers hard into more shingles there. His boots found purchase on the slippery roof, as only a sailor's boots could.

A few shingles broke at the lip and he snarled. In a fraction of a second he had a stronger grip, and he hoisted himself up onto the flat of the roof. Several shingles cracked and slid down the slope into the void beyond. Unfazed, Daelin dragged himself away from the edge. Only when he was safe from falling over again did he look down at Kallah. The little girl was shaking violently. Her eyes were closed, and her face was pressed hard against his chest. Her arms and legs were battered, but she clung to him with the tenaciousness of a monkey.

Daelin stared at her, unsure of what to do. For a moment, he wondered why he hadn't let the child fall, and seriously considered dropping her back over the edge. Then she opened her cyan eyes and looked up at him tearfully. He grimaced, and involuntarily stroked a hand over her hair. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry…"

"Gr-Gran-"

He winced. She went quiet and closed her eyes again, still shivering.

"… Let's get you inside," he managed after a long moment. "You could catch a cold out here."

* * *

Naxxramas

Korth'azz grunted and gave a bout of rough laughter. "To arms, ye roustabouts! We've got company!" he hollered, dismissing the shade that had reported to him.

Blaumeux blinked over at him. Her eyes flicked to the departing shade and she gave a slow, cat-like smile. "I do hope they stay alive long enough for me to… introduce myself," she purred.

There were currently invaders inside Naxxramas. For once, Lady Blaumeux was getting what she desired. Rather than sending out Ketala first to deal with the interlopers before any damages accrued, Kel'Thuzad had allowed the trespassers to fight their way to the four horsemen. Why he did this was unclear to Ketala. Perhaps he _was_ simply obliging Blaumeux.

"The first kill goes to me! Anyone care to wager?" Blaumeux inquired with a distinct arrogance.

"I'm gonna enjoy killin' these slack-jawed daffodils," was all that Korth'azz said in response. Lady Blaumeux looked down at the dwarf with contempt, but said nothing. Apparently Mograine noticed her glare, for he rounded on his fellow horsemen.

"Conserve your anger!" he hissed. "Harness your rage! You will all have outlets for your frustration soon enough!"

Ketala sat quietly in her corner of Kel'Thuzad's throne room, meticulously polishing her blades. The activity was monotonous and required little concentration. Due to this, Ketala could cast her mind throughout all of Naxxramas and still give the appearance that she was concentrated wholly upon her weapons. Sometime after she encountered Zeliek, it occurred to Ketala that she could still ply her gift.

The undead in Naxxramas were well hidden from her, but not entirely beyond her reach. With determination and a bit of creativity, she could slowly worm her way into their minds. It was hard going, and she generally had to stick to ghouls and other unintelligent undead. Still, it gave her something to do. It gave her goals and challenges. This helped her maintain her sanity. It also allowed her to be well-informed on the matters within Naxxramas' halls. Through the eyes of shades, she watched as the horsemen bickered.

Mograine was of particular interest to Ketala. She had never encountered the ex-Highlord before. Like all the inhabitants of the Plaguelands, Ketala had heard a great deal about Highlord Mograine the Ashbringer. He had once led the Scarlet Crusade. Even members of the Argent Dawn had known him as a righteous man. They told stories of how he could slaughter thousands of undead with nothing but his faith and his sword. He had been a legend once.

What he was doing in Kel'Thuzad's employ was a mystery to Ketala. He reminded her, in some ways, of Sir Zeliek. And yet where Zeliek was still pure and righteous, Mograine had been tainted. He seemed to have given in to his new Death Knight status. Rather than fighting against the darkness, he had submitted to it. As the invaders drew closer to where the horsemen were located, he seemed to grow more bitter and eager, all at once.

"Invaders, cease this foolish venture at once! Turn away while you still can!" Zeliek could only take actions that did not hamper his own effectiveness in battle. Kel'Thuzad was his puppeteer. At times, it was as if he were a stranger in his own body. On some occasions, Kel'Thuzad even took his voice.

Blaumeux laughed and looked over at the ex-paladin in amusement. "Come, Zeliek, do not drive them out. Not before we've had our fun!"

Desperate to get the invaders to turn away, Zeliek kept rambling. At that moment, it did not matter to him that Lady Blaumeux was beyond redemption, or that she cared little for what he had to say: "Perhaps they will come to their senses, and run away as fast as they can!"

Thane Korth'azz growled, looking over his shoulder at the white-clad death knight. "I heard about enough of yer sniveling. Shut yer trap 'afore I shut it for ye!"

Mograine snorted, silencing his fellow horsemen with a sharp gesture. "Enough prattling. Let them come! We shall grind their bones to dust."

In any event, while the battle was a pleasant diversion for Blaumeux, Mograine, and Korth'azz, it was utterly devastating to Zeliek.

"_Zeliek…"_

"_By the Light! Make me stop! Make me stop! I _know_ you can- I know you have the power to free me! Please, I beg of you, make me stop!" _

Ketala often speculated that Zeliek joined the ranks of the death by suffering an over-dramatized panic attack on the field. After a moment or two of considering the idea, she would always immediately feel sorry for the rude thoughts. Everyone copes with darkness in different ways. In Zeliek's defense, he was of sounder spirit than Ketala; even Mograine had fallen to darkness, and yet Zeliek's heart was still pure.

Still, he knew why she could not set him free. _"That will accomplish nothing, Zeliek. Kel'Thuzad would just kill you." _

"_Kill me? _KILL_ me? If you can give to me such a fate, than why do you so cruelly withhold it? Why do you let me remain here, slaughtering these helpless fools who come against me? Why do you _aid_ Ner'zhul?" _

Ketala snorted. _"Don't be foolish, Zeliek. The Lich King would just replace you. And your replacement would probably slaughter the invaders happily." _

"_Then at least free _me_… At least save _me_ from this hell…" _

"_We do not have the luxury of thinking of ourselves." _

"_What? That is _all_ we can think about! We can help no one else!" _

"_I am helping you." _

"_And a great deal it has done! Now I am only more certain of the atrocities I commit!" _

"_Would you like me to leave you be?" _

Agonized silence for a moment, and then, _"No…" _

"_I need your help, Zeliek. I cannot endure this darkness on my own." _

"_You have but to turn your sword to your own breast, and you are free. Why do you remain here?" _

"_Because Arthas will personally destroy everything I love." _

"_So instead you have him force _you_ to destroy everything you love? I am here to feel your agony when you plunge your blades through the hearts of invaders. I know your mental screams when you wake in the night."_

To that, Ketala had no immediate response. Zeliek did not push her, despite his own position. He merely turned his attention back to the battle. It was fights like these that he hated the most. The ranks were filled with Alliance soldiers- good men and women who did not deserve the end ahead of him. His hands went through the motions independent of his mind. They twirled his mace and sent it ripping through the thick armor of a nearby warrior.

"Flee! Flee before it is too late!" he begged. "I have no choice but to obey!" The warrior did not heed him. He rushed towards the ex-paladin, his sword and shield at ready. Zeliek had no choice about his actions. A few mace-blows later and the warrior was naught but a crumpled heap of blood and broken bones at his horse's feet.

He did not press his argument with Ketala until the battle was over, and some of his motor functions were once again his own. The white-clad death-knight looked down at his bloodstained hands, and his shoulders slumped.

"… _F… Forgive me…"_ he said meekly to her. _"At least you are trying to help end all of this…" _

"_You made many good points."_

Silence for a moment, and then he asked:_ "… How far are you with your plans?" _

"_It is difficult…"_ she mused._ "I am starting on the gargoyles… I already have a few under my wing." _

"_When you have more, leave. Get out of here. Get away from this." _

"… _Zeliek, I swore upon my paladin honor, and upon the lives of my friends, that I would serve Arthas loyally. I have no choice. I cannot turn back upon such a vow. All I can do is make the best of my situation, and try to turn the undead against Ner'zhul."_

He responded with naught but stunned silence.

"_I cannot leave, Zeliek. I am bound here by my own honor." _

"_Ketala…" _

"_I help the ghouls because I need some means of helping this world." _

"_Ketala, you have to go." _

"_I swore-" _

"_To the Nether with what you swore! It is unimportant! You are his prized weapon, Ketala! How dare you call yourself a warrior of the light, and then aid the Lich King in his slaughter of innocents?" _

"_I am a paladin. I cannot-" _

"_Forsake it! Forsake your paladin-hood if you must! Commit one dishonorable act- if you are insane enough to call betraying the Lich King dishonorable! It is worth it! It is worth the thousands of lives you will save!" _

"_I cannot. I am a paladin," _she growled in response.

"_Ketala, you fool. What is a paladin? A paladin is a protector of the innocent. A champion of freedom, truth, and justice." _

"_I would be turning upon my oath-" _

"_What right have you to be self-righteous when all of Azeroth needs your help?" _

"_Look at you. By holding true to your paladin roots, you have defied the Lich King! Your mind is safe from his, and your spirit is uncorrupted!" _

"_And I am a puppet, forced to kill at his every whim! And now, that is what _you_ are. He just controls you with different strings." _

"_I am… _nothing_… if not loyal to the promises I make." _

"_You are the salvation of an entire world, and you are helping to damn it." _

She was silent.

"_Think about what I've said,"_ the ex-paladin murmured mentally. _"And leave." _

"_I can't," _she answered softly.

"_Why?" _

"_I can't leave Kel'Thuzad." _

Zeliek snorted. _"He has damned himself, Ketala… And he has damned you. There is nothing for you to save." _

"_He is my only family, Zeliek. My entire life has been centered on saving him. Everything I have done, I did while thinking about how I could somehow draw him from the Lich King's thrall. I cannot leave him, Zeliek…" _

"_How can you put so many lives above your own happiness?" _

"_Because I was never raised to understand morals, or values, or good and evil. I learned all of those things later, and I truly believed them. But I was raised understanding only one thing: I wanted to be with my parent. He saved my life, and my soul. And I cannot leave him." _

"_How exactly do you figure upon 'saving' him? Are you just hoping that some raid will miraculously make its way to through Naxxramas, Kel'Thuzad will be cornered, and you'll have the freedom you need to spirit him out of here? He sends you to kill everything he considers a threat!" _

"…_I…" _

"_What exactly are you waiting for?" _

"… _Nathanos…" _

Zeliek blinked, looking up from his bloodstained hands. _"You speak that name with great passion." _

"…_I was waiting for Nathanos… I expected him to come find me… I suppose that was wishful thinking." _

The death knight ex-paladin was silent for a moment. _"Ketala, how did you end up here in the first place?"_

* * *

Theramore

The Grand Admiral Proudmoore was neither a priest nor a physician. Despite this fact, he did have a rudimentary understanding of first aid. He set Kallah down in her little bathtub, and washed out all her scrapes with warm water. Bruises were appearing all over her tiny frame, so he had to be extra careful not to touch any of them. Drying her off after her bath was even more difficult.

Fortunately, Kallah wasn't a particularly fussy patient. She sat quietly while he bandaged up her little scrapes, and only fidgeted every once in awhile. Her skin was as soft as any human child's. When he brushed a bruise on accident, her little forehead puckered and her eyes watered. She sniffled, and he even had to use a tissue to wipe some boogies from her nose. Boogie wiping- now _there_ was something he hadn't done in a few decades.

She was really just a kid…

Now that he thought about it, who the nether had taught her to call him "Grandpa"? Obviously, Jaina must have. And if the young sorceress _had_ taught Kallah to call him by that particular appellation, what did it mean? Should he be angry that Jaina was trying to get him to accept the little halfbreed? Should he be happy that his daughter obviously hadn't disowned him? Was Jaina being manipulative, or was she being encouraging? Did he care? Was he disgusted? Why "Grandpa"? Did Jaina really think he would ever accept this creature as his grandchild?

"Grandpa? I think my hair is messy," Kallah observed, pulling vainly at her hopelessly matted tresses. Daelin blinked and stared at her. Her hair _was_ very messy… He pulled a brush out of a nearby cupboard, and then carefully began working on her hair, from the bottom up. When he was around halfway up the length of her hair, he froze, and blinked several times. It was almost as if he had just woken up, and was surprised to find himself in his current position.

Kallah looked up at him. One of her bright cyan eyes was slightly marred by a dark purple bruise and a few scrapes. Her expression held a small mite of apprehension and a large wealth of curiosity.

It occurred to him, just then, that he was an abomination- an undead- a perversion of nature, and Kallah had never once shown any disgust or hatred towards him. Babies cried and mothers crossed themselves when he approached. Small children hid behind their parents' legs, and older ones made faces behind his back. But never once had Kallah ever been anything but curious and friendly.

Quite suddenly, he had no idea what to believe.

* * *

Naxxramas

Ketala did think about Zeliek's words. She considered them, and weighed her choices carefully. Days passed, and the Lich King did not call on her again to do battle. He let the horsemen deal with all incursions into Naxxramas. During these raids, she thought about Zeliek's words the hardest. She felt her paladin comrade's horror at the atrocities he was forced to commit.

She felt guilty.

As she sat and pondered, she looked over at Vaiden, and carefully observed the little boy. The child was two or three- Ketala had given up trying to track dates in Naxxramas' unending twilight. Despite his young age, he already had a plethora of quirks.

For starters, Vaiden was mute. He was utterly silent, unable to do anything so much as cry or laugh. The main reason for this was that he lacked vocal cords. Many times, Ketala had tried to heal this particular flaw, but the child had been born that way, and she could not change what was normal for him. Furthermore, Vaiden's emotions were very subdued. She had only seen him smile once or twice. He yawned occasionally, but he had never cried, or thrown any type of fit. All of this had made communication between mother and son very difficult.

On the other hand, he was an utter master of giving meaningful looks. In the first few years of Vaiden's life, Ketala had become skilled at reading subtle facial clues. It helped that his eyes whirled different colors depending on his mood. She could almost always feel when he was staring at her, and a look at his intense eyes could clue her in to the nature of any problem or desire he had.

It was also hard to tell whether Vaiden was undead or alive. Every last one of the little boy's organs was fully functioning, and yet he was awash in necromantic energy. He healed and grew like a normal human, and yet he was extremely anorexic, and his skin was the color of ash. Ketala didn't exactly care to drive a blade into his heart to see if he would remain animated. She figured that the little boy was caught somewhere _between_ life and undeath.

The little one was also slightly crippled just below his left knee. In a normal human, the lower leg would be made up of two bones, the fibula and tibia, which would be encased together in a thick shield of muscle and flesh. In Vaiden's left leg, the fibula and tibia were separated. Each one was surrounded by a tiny layer of fat, muscle, and flesh. In this leg, Vaiden evidenced the highest necromantic corruption. Ketala surmised that this deformity was a result on Kel'Thuzad's attack on her during her pregnancy.

But nevertheless, regardless of his flaws, she adored the little child. And the more she thought about Zeliek's words, the more she thought about the consequences of raising Vaiden in such a terrible place. She wanted what was best for her child…

Maybe it was a good idea to leave…

"_You shouldn't let such thoughts cross your mind, little Fiheriae. I might overhear them," _a familiar mental voice purred softly.

A cold wave of air washed over Ketala; simultaneously, Vaiden turned and looked at her. He immediately tottered over to her and sat down in her lap. His tiny fingers clung to her armor in a hug, and he leaned his cheek against her chest plate. Ketala smiled lightly, looking down at the little boy.

Vaiden… What would she have done without him…?

Something cold moved nearer to her, and she lifted her head. She was not surprised when she found herself face to face with Arthas' specter. His mouth quirked up at the corner in an amused smirk, and his acidic eyes conveyed a taunting malice. Ketala snorted and shuddered violently. _"My name is Truae,"_ she hissed mentally, and then batted a hand forward through the air that he occupied. _"And you are nothing more than a figment of my imagination."_

He arched a brow at her and gave a light chuckle, smiling all the more. _"Oh, really? Then why are you talking to me?"_ Ketala just sneered in response, and he laughed again. _"Be that as it may, I am a very powerful figment of your imagination. I may not be able to affect the physical world around you, but I am destroying you from the inside. And I warn you- you shouldn't let such thoughts cross your mind." _

"_Or what?"_ she asked in bitter amusement. _"You will torment my mind further? If you have not noticed, dear Figment, you are already doing your worst. And you are coming up against a wall. I have been fighting off your visions of late."_

His eyes half closed to slits, and he eyed her almost lazily. It took a keen eye to spot the venom hidden in his gaze. _"Indeed. But there are other ways to torture you." _

"_Then I am lucky you are trapped inside my head."_ His smile faded a bit, and he leaned closer to her. His mouth was set in a grim line, and his sickly eyes bored into hers with a disturbing cool. Vaiden hugged her more tightly.

"_You know very well that I am more than a simple hallucination. I have broken free of you before. Think carefully before you defy me, little Fiheriae. You have been in Naxxramas for years. You are suffused entirely with his taint. _My_ taint. This little fragment of my mind is not as separated from the whole as it once was. That is why _I_ am growing stronger. That is why _I_ can now speak. Soon, you will find that the Lich King has a direct link to your mind through me." _

"_And I to him," _she said cryptically. _"The last time he and I fought, I didn't exactly lose." _

"_Ketala, it would take but one order to destroy you. All I would have to do is command Kel'Thuzad to murder Vaiden, and everything you live for would suddenly crumble." _

Ketala smiled, stroking gently through Vaiden's mousy hair. _"Ah, but dear specter, if I and Vaiden leave, then it would be much harder to kill my beloved child." _

"_You wake in the night screaming my name, begging for me to end your torment. If you leave, I will destroy you. I will kill every innocent in search of you. I will slaughter anyone I find who even knows your name. And I will rip your mind apart at the seams."_

A pang of guilt shot through Ketala, and then was smothered.

"_I cannot allow my fear to control me. I will defend them from you. I will fight you until my dying gasp," _she growled, her eyes whirling red, orange, and yellow.

His eyes narrowed._ "You are mine," _he said coldly, clearly. _"You always have been. You always will be. You are mine." _

"_I am nothing of yours," _she snarled.

"_You are _only_ mine. Through Gandling, I created you. From birth, from the womb, from your very conception, you have been mine. I am the one who ordered Gandling to take the lifeless body of a girl and splice it with elemental energy. I am the one who imparted life unto you. I am responsible for everything- from your power to the very constitution of your soul. And I am even the one who had Kel'Thuzad raise you and Anub'arak train you. You belong to me. You were created by me, for me. Everything you are, you owe to me. You are _mine_." _

"_As you are Kil'Jaeden's?"_

For once, he was silent. There was something within Ketala that desperately wanted him to continue his rant- that wanted to know how and why she had come into being. But another part- a stronger part- knew that it did not matter. If she had indeed once owed Arthas the debt of life, than she had surely paid for it with how many she had killed in his name.

"_You. Are. Mine."_ A great weight of mental energy slammed down on her, overwhelming her with sheer strength. A foreign sense of crushing despair ripped into her. A thousand visions rippled before her eyes, showing a thousand atrocities, a thousand possible futures in which everything she loved was destroyed.

Ketala grit her teeth, and then laughed. The laughter echoed and rebounded within her head as she ruthlessly forced back against him, fighting fire with fire. In that moment, all her spirit returned in a blanket of sheer defiance. He had been silent. Things were not hopeless. And he was _not_ her master.

"Ketala!" The word was physical- real. It drew her out of Arthas' agonizing visions, and brought her into the normal world again. Kel'Thuzad was standing near her. She looked up at him, blinking in confusion and wondering why he had called her name. She heard the sound of armor hitting the ground on the other side of her, and she turned to see two abnormally large skeletons forcing a human to kneel.

The human male was wearing the tabard of the Argent Dawn, and sported exceedingly damaged paladin plate. There were large, gaping holes in his armor, and blood oozed from his numerous wounds. Kel'Thuzad eyed Ketala a moment before continuing.

"The Lich King finds this one unsuited to become a Death Knight. Instead, his remains shall be given to the necromancers for use in their abominations." The paladin jerked his head up to stare at the lich. "Of course, in order to be suitable for use in abominations, he needs to be broken down into his basic parts. The Lich King would like you to do the honor."

Ketala looked up at Kel'Thuzad for a moment, her expression blank. Then she carefully set Vaiden on the ground, stood, and walked up to the captured paladin. He recognized the emblem of the silver hand on her breastplate.

"Lady Ketala –" he pleaded.

She drew out both of her swords with lightning speed. Both cleaved like scissors through his neck, and then dived down to sever his arms at the shoulder. Each movement was fast and hard- requiring a strength born almost of anger. Again, the swords came together like scissors, and sliced off the legs, one at a time.

The execution and butchering were over in thirty seconds. Inwardly, Kel'Thuzad was mildly surprised, but he gave no outward indication of his sentiments. Ketala turned towards him, her eyes icy and cold. She wore an expression he had never seen before- something between determination and anger.

"As the Lich King commands," she recited blandly.

"May this serve to warn you; next time, it shall be Zeliek awaiting his execution by your hands."

Inwardly, Ketala was mildly surprised, but she gave no outward indication of her sentiments. If any of the skeletons in the room had possessed functioning minds, they might have noted the similarities between the two. Ketala nodded obediently, and then turned back to where she had been sitting.

There she saw Vaiden, staring curiously at the butchered corpse. A butterfly feeling shot through her stomach, and an overwhelming cloud of shame rushed over her. For a moment, her world was still and silent. She looked at the boy for a long moment, contemplating the full extent of the world in which she was raising him.

Every logical process in Ketala's mind shut down. Thought and reason faded, and she allowed a wave of mindless instinct to sweep over her. She sheathed both of her blades, and then scooped up her child in her arms. Without thinking, she turned and began walking towards the exit to Kel'Thuzad's throne room.

Ketala had never taken Vaiden outside of that room. She had not wanted to expose him to the evils within Naxxramas' dreadful halls. Her current actions surprised Kel'Thuzad.

"Where are you going?" he inquired.

"To visit Zeliek," Ketala answered icily, and without stopping. "I thought Vaiden could get an extra dose of carnage viewing for today." The lich's eyes narrowed. He could sense something amiss.

"Stop." His voice rang cold and clear across the throne room. Ketala obeyed, but did not look back at him. "Vaiden will remain here, under my supervision," the lich enunciated slowly. "You may leave, but only because I know his presence will return you here."

For a moment, Ketala did not respond. Then she looked over her shoulder at her beloved parent. The waves of instinct did not falter. Their powerful swells were not halted by logic or grief.

"Vaiden will go wherever I please," she answered simply. "May this serve to warn you; I fear no consequences. I will not let _anything_ poison my son."

"You forfeit Zeliek's life," the lich hissed in outrage.

"And oh, how he would thank me for it."

"You forfeit _mine_."

That was a powerful threat. Ketala did not consciously remember that Kel'Thuzad had once tried to take Vaiden from her. She did not remember giving up on the old lich. For a moment, the waves of her instinct faltered.

"Ketala…" he murmured, stretching out a skeletal hand to her.

The undead paladin looked at the offered limb, and then turned her eyes to his dark blue ones. "No. You forfeited yours long ago when _you_ refused to poison _me_. I am merely forfeiting mine. Besides, he won't kill you."

"You seem so certain," he hissed sarcastically.

"He knows that you are the only reason I stay. Not because of Nathanos, or Vaiden, or Zeliek, or Andorhal. I stay because of you. Because I love you, and I will not leave you. I obey him because of you. Promising to leave Nathanos and Andorhal alone are prices he paid to lure me in. He holds nothing over me. It is all you. If he slew you, I would find a way out- and he knows it.'

She eyed him a moment, and then turned and continued to walk. Kel'Thuzad stared after her quietly, an expression of disgust on his face.

* * *

The Temple of Ahn'Qiraj

Ouro was not happy with the situation. It bellowed and tossed, and smashed its body into whatever object (including the ground) was readily available. Despite all its protests, the irritating cretin on top of its head would not let go! The foul-smelling little beastie was tugging at Ouro's sensitive antennae- yanking the sandworm's head from side to side. Finally, Ouro just gave up and dove back underground. That would get the nasty little beastie off.

Nathanos grinned when he noticed that Ouro was just about to dive. He had spent his sandworm ride examining Ouro's complex carapace. When the worm arced downward, Nathanos shoved himself under a fold of the creature's powerful hide. His fingers tightened on Ouro's two antennae. When the sandworm hit the ground, he did not release- he went along for the ride.

Poor Ouro was very surprised to find that Nathanos was not dislodged by a trip underground. The ranger remained clinging to it- quite painfully, in fact. This situation was so distressing that Ouro quickly surfaced again, and continued trying to beat the ranger to a pulp against a rock.

It didn't work.

Frustrated, Ouro dove again. And again. And again. It would surface and flail about madly. It would tunnel under the ground and writhe back and forward, trying to dislodge its extra baggage. Dive, flail, dive, flail, dive, flail. Nathanos remained an obstinate pest. He tugged on the great worm's antenna, and dug his axe blade into the sensitive areas behind its massive plates of carapace. He'd pull left, and wouldn't be satisfied until the worm turned. He'd press behind its plates, and would press harder and harder until it dived.

Ras sat down and ate lunch. And dinner. And then breakfast and lunch and dinner, and then breakfast again. He wasn't certain whose tenaciousness he was more impressed with: Nathanos' or Ouro's. The entire raiding party came to the entrance of Ouro's chamber to watch, although none dared walk out onto the sandworm's arena.

At last, the pattern stopped- quite suddenly and without any prior warning. Nathanos tugged left, and Ouro turned left. And left… and left… It turned in two circles, before the ranger released, and the worm went still. It hadn't eaten in days, and had been engaging in very frustrating and energy-wasting activity. It was weak, tired, and it wanted food.

Nathanos smirked from his perch. His arms were strained, he was covered in sand, and his legs were raw. Very carefully, he shifted so that he was next to the creature's head, and he gently patted the sensitive carapace around its antenna. Ouro twitched, but was otherwise motionless. The ranger gave a wry smile, and looked triumphantly over where the party was sitting.

"Ras, would you be so kind as to summon up a bit of bread?"

The mage blinked, and then his jaw dropped, as it suddenly dawned on him what all of this struggling had been about. He choked on his food, and had to spend a minute clearing out his trachea before he could speak again. When he did, he just managed: "F- for Ouro?"

"Of course!" the ranger exclaimed. "What kind of Ranger Lord does not feed his animal companions?"

* * *

**YARG!**


	8. Arguments

I live! Hehe! Hey everyone, I got this chapter uploaded. This time it only took me a month! Ironically, I had this chapter done just 2 days after I posted the last one, but I haven't posted it. Why? Well, as some of you may or may not know, my Beta went missing three months back. Ever since, I've been lethargic and paranoid that my writings are absolutely horrible.

My Beta-Reader has only been with me since the last chapters of Mahi-Mahi, but I'm already convinced I need her! Sure, there are all kinds of authors out there who go about their business without a beta, but let me tell you, you don't realize how great they are until you find one, and then subsequently misplace it.

Three months ago, my Beta disappeared into thin-air. And now, while I was writing this intro… she's returned. GASP. YAY! So everyone give a big hand to my Beta, Arallion. She has an unnatural obsession with coffee and Pirates of the Caribbean. She writes fanfiction for Trinity Blood. She draws elegantly. She has written excellent ThrallxJaina one-shot.

No seriously, you should check out her TxJ fanfiction.

Furthermore, I'm sad to report that I don't have access to a scanner, and I'm drawing like mad. I have all these adorable pictures, and no means to get them to you! Maybe I'll be able to get them all to you for Christmas, like a big present? Woo!

On average, there are 150-200 hits on a new chapter of Truae. It has occurred to me that this means there are at least 100 people out there, reading my fanfiction, all of whom I have never even heard of. Weirddd. I hope they like it!

Anyhoo, I've ranted enough. Enjoy the chapter!

* * *

_**Arguments**_

Theramore

"Jaina, I have never seen you act so irrationally!"

"I, act irrationally? Would you be so kind as to enlighten me on what I've done that happens to be 'irrational'?"

"You know _exactly_ what I mean! First you tell me that you notified your father of her existence-"

"He walked in without knocking!"

"Which worries me, because it indicates that anyone who decided to just enter your room would see her-"

"How many people do you think just randomly barge into my room without even knocking?" she exclaimed loudly.

"Apparently enough that a mentally unbalanced racist can get in!" he answered with equal volume.

"Hold your tongue, Warchief! Daelin may hate orcs, but he is still my father and closest advisor."

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean? It didn't stop _you_ from betraying him once already! This is the man who has threatened peace between our nations for years! In fact, the fact that you trust him makes the whole situation worse! Who the hell claims peace with another race, and then takes the world's biggest racist as their closest advisor?"

_That_ made Jaina _mad_. She was so mad that she could not immediately say anything.

"And as if that were not enough, now you tell me that you've allowed her out into your courtyard at night, _knowing_ that he was out there watching her! Are you _trying_ to get her killed?"

"You are _too__bold_," she snarled. The venom in her voice would have shocked Thrall at any other time. "At least _I_ was _watching_ her."

His blue eyes narrowed. "And what, exactly," he said acidly, "is that supposed to mean?"

"Ko-do." She enunciated both syllables clearly and with great accusation.

"So now you spy on me?" he asked with a slight sneer.

"_Spy_ on you?" she shouted, as if she had just heard the most outrageous thing in the world. "I just want to ensure that my child is safe!"

"So what you are saying is that you do not trust me?"

"Is such a sentiment unjustified? You _did_ almost let her get trampled by a five ton lizard!"

"At least the incident with the Kodo was unintentional! You treat her like she's part of some damn experiment!"

"Are we interrupting something?" asked a voice from nearby. Both leaders spun to glare at their eavesdropper, and then froze. The Admiral Proudmoore was standing in the doorway to Kallah's room, his arms folded over his chest. Clinging to one of his legs was Kallah, herself. Her little forehead was pinched up with worry, and her lower lip trembled. She looked at her parents uncertainly, her eyes large and watery.

To make the scene even more bewildering, the little girl had bandages all over her. "Kallah…" Jaina murmured upon noticing the wraps first. She moved quickly up to the little girl and knelt, touching her arms and cheek gently. "My goodness child, what happened?" Thrall blinked and stepped forward to get a better look at Kallah, all traces of anger gone.

Kallah did not answer the question posed to her. Instead she asked, "Were you yelling about me?" Jaina opened her mouth to respond. To her surprise, Thrall answered first.

"No, of course not lamb-chop. Mommy and daddy are just upset because they feel irresponsible," he responded gently, and he reached out to touch Jaina's shoulder in order to prove to Kallah that everything was alright.

"'Cause… of me…?" the little girl asked.

"No, silly," Jaina continued, leaning forward to kiss her on the nose. She smiled at Kallah, and then used her sleeve to wipe tiny tears from the little girl's cheeks. "They feel that way because they _are_ irresponsible. Now where did you get all these boo-boos?"

Jaina shot a look up at Daelin. She had a feeling that he had something to do with this, but he was also the one to whom which Kallah was currently clinging. Certainly he couldn't have done anything _that_ bad.

Kallah wiped her own face and composed herself, before saying quite innocently, "Grandpa pushed me off the roof."

Thrall's head jerked up, and he looked at Daelin with an expression that promised death.

"Thanks kid," the Admiral muttered dryly. "Speaking of which, you'll need to re-shingle your bedroom, Jaina. I suspect it's raining in one corner right now."

"It was an accident," Kallah continued hastily, sensing that her parents were about to maul the living daylights out of her grandfather. "I almost fell, but he caught me!"

Thrall and Jaina exchanged a look of bewilderment. They silently came to an agreement to discuss the matter later - it wasn't like Daelin was going anywhere - and instead looked back to their offspring. "Kallah, what were you doing _on_ the roof?" Jaina inquired after a moment.

The half-orc child blushed guiltily and lowered her head. "Watching the storm come in," she mumbled quietly. Jaina had known nothing of Kallah's roof-time excursions, and the little girl had a feeling that she was about to have her window boarded up.

"Oh Kallah, what you did was dangerous! How many times have you done this?" her mother exclaimed worriedly.

"Um… Once?" she offered hopefully.

Jaina eyed her.

"…Lots?" she amended, equally hopefully.

Thrall sighed. "Jaina, perhaps we should put Kallah to bed, and discuss this in the morning," he offered. The sorceress looked up at him and then nodded.

"Your daddy's right, Kallah. Promise you won't go out again tonight?"

Kallah quivered. "I promise," she said solemnly.

"Cross your heart?"

She made a gesture over her heart to indicate the sanctity of her promise.

"Good girl… now come on, I'll tuck you in." Jaina scooped the little girl up and carried her swiftly back into her little room. She shut the door behind her, leaving Daelin and Thrall alone.

"You pushed her off the roof?" The orc asked after a moment of silence, turning his head to look at the admiral.

"Yes," the undead man answered without hesitation.

"And yet you caught when she fell?"

"Yes," he replied again.

"Why?"

"To spare my own neck." Daelin didn't miss a beat. "Killing a single insignificant half-breed is hardly worth dying for - especially since she will probably be slain by a group of elitist Alliance freedom-fighters in the near future. Or… Kodo feet."

Thrall whirled on him, blue eyes burning with a barely contained fury. The Admiral affected not to notice. He merely turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the incensed Warchief to stand there and watch his retreat.

For a moment, Thrall seriously considered snapping the Forsaken's neck and being done with the whole matter. Then his rage cooled, and his mind subsided into calm, rational thought.

He could hear Kallah saying her prayers, both to the Light and to her ancestors. After a bit, Jaina exited the little girl's room, and closed the door quietly. She looked up at him, and for a moment the two leaders contemplated what to do next.

"I'm sorry," Thrall said after a long moment.

Jaina blinked. "You're sorry? You're not the one who was in charge of her while she was wandering around on the roof."

"No…But I let her practice summoning lightning," he admitted guiltily.

Jaina blinked. "That would explain how Math ended up as a static puff-ball the other day…"

"… It is ironic how Kallah has made it _more_ difficult for us to trust one another," Thrall observed after a moment.

"Only because we feel guilty, and are trying to channel that feeling on to someone else. We're both utterly terrified of screwing up, and want to blame anyone but ourselves for the results."

"An immature impulse. I think this whole ordeal with the Dark Portal is wearing on my nerves."

Jaina gave a short laugh. "You preach to the converted. I have to meet up with officials in Stormwind tonight in order to discuss the matter. Now, more than ever, we have to finish the conflict in Silithus. Our forces are starting to stretch thin…"

"Both your people and mine are very hungry for demon blood. We might have to abandon the conflict in the desert."

"That wouldn't be the best path."

"I know. We'll figure it out, somehow."

Jaina smiled and came up beside him. She laid her hand on his arm, and looked up at him fondly. "I _am_ sorry. Do you still trust me?"

He nodded. "And do you trust me?" he inquired.

"Of course. It's not like I'd risk my life for peace with the orcs, and then expect you to keep a shoddy eye on our child," she responded with a grin.

He smirked lightly, and then looked at Kallah's door. "Our kid," he echoed softly, as if still amazed by the meaning of the words. Jaina blinked and then looked at the door as well, held by the same mesmerizing thought as he.

* * *

Naxxramas

Vaiden looked around curiously as Ketala carried him from Kel'Thuzad's throne room. Of great interest to him was the mighty Sapphiron, who guarded the room's main entryway. The undead dragon shifted slightly in response to Ketala's presence, but did little else; it was used to her comings and goings. By the look on Vaiden's face, he was deathly curious about the giant white and blue behemoth, but Ketala did not halt.

She was still caught up in an instinctive drive, somewhere in limbo between conscious action and dream-like whimsy. She was seated at the precipice of realization, directly before the place where whims gathered to become concrete thoughts. As long as she stayed there, as long as she didn't think about it, as long as her plans remained unformed and she lived only in the present, Arthas could not see what she would do next.

That was vital. So she let her elemental heritage assume control, and she walked. She couldn't stop. Not now. No time. She couldn't remain in limbo for long, and the edges of her plans and motives were threatening to form, like clouds gathering on a horizon.

She walked silently down the long hallways, ignoring the screams and moans that echoed around her. She ignored the curious look upon Vaiden's face, and merely carried him… carried him…

Zeliek sat quietly upon his horse, and gazed down with quiet shame at its skeletal neck. The undead animal turned its head in order to look back at him. He lifted his eyes briefly to meet the unnatural violet glow of his mount's desiccated eyes, and then lowered them again. Sad. He couldn't even meet the gaze of a horse.

Well, _his_ horse. The beast was actually Zeliek's mount in life. It had been reanimated beside him to serve him in undeath. Zeliek had first met the creature when his own horse had been slain in combat. He'd been forced to borrow a replacement mount from a nearby farm. The animal had then saved his life by kicking the head off of a charging orc. Zeliek had promptly bought the horse, and renamed it Orcbane. He'd found the animal so dependable that he'd refused to ride any other horse.

This whole situation had been fairly annoying to the Lordaeron nobility, as Orcbane sported mixed blood, a splotchy yellow and gray coat, and an extremely well-developed sense of humor.

The memories made him smile, even though they churned his stomach. He shook his head after a moment, trying to dispel his depression. He could do nothing for Lordaeron now. The city had fallen. But if he was strong, perhaps he could help Ketala…

He looked up as soft metallic footsteps echoed across the room. Blaumeus and Korth'azz were busying themselves with toying with prisoners from the battle, and playing games concerning how many severed heads could be affixed to a single weapon at any one time. Mograine was sitting quietly upon his mount, running a thumb lightly over the side of his blade; there was a strange intensity to the ex-scarlet crusader that was really quite disturbing. However, it was clear that none of these individuals were the cause of the footsteps he heard.

His curiosity was sated a moment later, as from the corner of his eye he caught sight of a form in shining white gliding into the room. Zeliek turned his head to get a better look, and realized that the white form belonged to none other than Ketala. He sat up straighter, his surprise visible. Never before had Ketala come to visit him. Their conversations had always been mental, in order to keep the Lich King ignorant of their… friendship. Zeliek had only encountered her once in person, so he could not fathom what she was doing in the death knight wing. But there she was.

Furthermore, he was not the only one who noticed her. A quick glance to the side showed him that Mograine had also detected her entrance. The ex-highlord had gone very still, and had turned his head towards the undead girl. This worried Zeliek, but he refrained from moving forward to shield her. Both Blaumeux and Korth'azz remained ignorant of Ketala's presence, and he didn't want to budge, lest he draw their attention to her.

"_I need you to do something for me,"_ Ketala said mentally as she approached him.

"_What are you doing here?"_ he asked, somewhat alarmed. The manner in which Mograine was leering at her left him exceptionally worried. In fact, he was so preoccupied with his fellow horsemen, that he did not immediately recognize what Ketala was carrying. When she was within a few feet of his horse, his eyes widened even more. It was a child. A small, pale, child. _"What-?"_

"_This is my son, Vaiden,"_ she continued without missing a beat.

"_But- you- Is he undead?"_

"_Not quite." _She hoisted the boy up and forced him into Zeliek's lap. Both child and death-knight blinked in confusion.

"_Ketala, what are you doing-"_

"_He was conceived during my undeath. He is mine and Nathanos' child."_

Anything Zeliek might have intended to say transformed into an unintelligible jumble as a result of his surprise.

"_I cannot keep him here any longer. This world will poison him. I cannot yet go, but he needs to leave. And you are going to take him."_

"What?" Zeliek gasped aloud, forgetting to keep his words mental.

"_You heard me. I will shield your mind, and you will get him out of here."_

"_Ketala, you are acting foolishly! If anyone should escape, it should be you-"_

He was unprepared for the paladin girl roughly grabbing his face, and jerking it down to her level. He almost fell off his horse.

"_You will take Vaiden to Andorhal, where you shall meet my friends, and my adoptive children. From there, you will find Nathanos, and you will bring Vaiden to him. Is that understood?"_

"_No. Why me?"_

"_Because out of the two of us, I _can't_ leave, and you _can._"_

"_So you shall continue to serve Arthas, a slave to his whims-"_

"_No. That's why I need Vaiden to be safe. And you, too."_

"_Ketala-"_

"_I need to stay."_

"_Because of Kel'Thuzad?"_

"_Somewhat. But there are other reasons. I need to get Vaiden out of here, and Arthas won't follow you as passionately as he would follow me. I can cover your escape like you could never cover mine. It would take me years to amass a force powerful enough to punch through the Lich King's lines, and by then Vaiden would have lived out his entire childhood in this hell, and Ner'zhul would be well aware of my intentions. I need you to go now, while he is not prepared to stop you. Please, Zeliek. Do this for me."_

He stared at her quietly. _"Are you really so trapped here? Once I and Vaiden are free, can't you escape? You are a stunning swordsman- surely you could beat anyone here…"_

"_Take on Naxxramas all by myself? I couldn't do it all- not on my own. I may be stronger than you, but am I stronger than Sapphiron, Kel'Thuzad, Mograine, Blaumeux, Korth'azz, and any other number of monstrosities within this place?"_

"_Then have you given up hope?"_

"_Not yet. I will do everything I can to get out of here. But Arthas sees much of my mind, and I could never kill Kel'Thuzad. I need help. When you find Nathanos, tell him where I am. Tell him that I'm quite annoyed that he's kept me waiting so long," _she said, and she smiled weakly.

"_He… he may not be looking for you."_

"_Then find someone who will."_

"_Ketala…"_

"I can't do this alone, Zeliek…" she whispered out loud, and her voice cracked slightly. "I did not understand the consequences of my actions when I damned myself to this place. Please, go… Find some way to help me… Please…"

Her fellow undead paladin looked at her for a long, hard moment, and then nodded. _"I will not fail you, Ketala. Tell me what to do."_

She quickly gave him a mental list of instructions, and then pulled back and gave his horse a shove. _"Get going."_

"_As you wish,"_ he murmured half in reverence, and half in apology. He spurred his horse- an unnecessary measure considering it lacked anything to spur - and the animal leapt forward, dashing for the entry hall to the horsemen's room. The clattering of hooves drew the attention of both Korth'azz and Blaumeux, who looked up in surprise.

"Where the nether is that snivelin' rat headed off to?" Korth'azz growled in annoyance

Blaumeux was far more personally offended by the whole matter, and demonstrated this by yelling loudly, "What is _she_ doing here?" and pointing accusingly at Ketala.

Mograine chuckled, and gave Ketala an almost gentle smile. "Welcome to the club," he said with amusement. Ketala blinked at him, and it occurred to her that he must have heard her verbal pleas to Zeliek. Still, he did not pursue his fellow horseman- just observed Ketala.

"I met your son once," Ketala said after a moment.

Immediately, the grin left Mograine's face. All mirth passed from him, and he stared at her with hard, calculating eyes. The air around her immediately felt colder.

"He was an asshole."

The ex-highlord blinked. Quite suddenly, he burst out laughing. Blaumeux and Korth'azz looked at him in amazement as he laughed and laughed and laughed. At last his manic laughter dried out to soft chuckles, and he nudged his horse up to Ketala. He circled around her once, and then smiled. "I will warn you only once," he said matter-of-factly. "An undead of free will is the only creature that can slay itself and not fear reanimation. If you end your existence now, you will find peace. If you do not, one day you shall find yourself helpless to obey your masters.

"You say that with conviction."

"It is the greatest of certainties," he countered. "And even now, the master's will is done through you. He consumes you, just as he consumed all before you, in one way or another."

"And yet here you are, warning me."

"We all have our own ways of coping with our darkness," he answered in a foreboding tone. Ketala looked directly at him. Those words… She had once used them to describe Zeliek. "We may be instruments of death, and champions of the slaughter, but we were _all_ once men."

She regarded Mograine pensively a moment, and then responded calmly in the most bizarre of manners: "Well, that _does_ explain Blaumeux's exceptionally broad shoulders…"

The woman in question gave a primitive cry of disgust and outrage. Her axe was bared in an instant, flashing through the air like a poisonous snake. "Silence your tongue! You may be favored by Kel'Thuzad, but I would have no problem tearing _those_ puny arms from your _minuscule_ frame!"

Korth'azz hooted and hollered in delight at his companion's irritation. "Haha! Look at ye, Blaumeux! Getting yerself all worked up- Ha! She is a wee thing, ain't she?" He leered down at Ketala with a frightful grin upon his face, and winked sloppily. The corner of Mograine's mouth twitched in amusement.

"Have either of you noticed that Zeliek is fleeing Naxxramas?" he inquired of his fellow horsemen innocently.

Both blinked.

"Well what are we sittin' around here for? After the sniv'lin' paladin!" Korth'azz snarled. His horse reared up and then bolted forward. Blaumeux shot Ketala a look of pure malice and then followed. Neither appeared to notice the fact that Mograine did not follow. The ex-highlord watched them go, and then looked back down at Ketala. There was a second of stillness - no sound but the clattering of departing hooves. And then, suddenly, the ex-highlord's sword was hurtling down towards her. She grasped the hilts of her scimitars and ripped them up above her head, catching the massive blade and holding it less than a foot from her face.

He was unnaturally strong, and the blade itself was heavy. She found herself bracing her legs tight against the ground, and shoving up against his weapon with all of her strength. The ex-highlord tilted his head to the side. With a swift motion he drew the sword back and hacked at her from the side.

Again she countered. Again, they were at a standstill.

"So, you can puncture Kel'Thuzad's control over his mind…" the deathknight observed. He drew the Ashbringer back, trotted his horse a few feet away and then dismounted. "But can you maintain the control while fighting for your life?"

He had not felt the earth beneath his feet for a long time. After a moment he gave his horse a gentle shove, sending it off into a corner. Ketala tilted her head to the side. Mograine turned towards her slowly, and gave his sword a practiced swing. "Can you distract Kel'Thuzad, retain control of your minions, ignore the Lich King's tortures, and shield Zeliek… All while locked in combat?" he questioned coolly.

"I cannot see why you would have any interest in dueling me. And if you were just doing your duty to the Lich King, you would have had Korth'azz and Blaumeux help you."

He gave a few more swings of his sword, and then took an offensive stance. "Call it curiosity," he answered. "Boredom doesn't just affect the living."

* * *

Theramore

Jaina looked critically down at her roof. All the shingles in a wide swath were either missing or broken. Hell, her bedroom had almost flooded. She might as well have installed a small waterfall in her ceiling. Thrall crouched down beside her and touched several of the damaged slate leaves.

"This looks like too much damage for Kallah to have caused it all," he remarked.

"It is," Jaina agreed. "And the damage reaches too low, as well. She would have had to slide all the way to the edge of the roof… And then she would have slid much too far for Daelin to have simply 'grabbed her'."

"Could the storm have dislodged more?"

"Yes, but it wouldn't have _broken_ any shingles. The smashed shingles on either side of the swath indicate that all of this was all done manually. Strange… What else could have slid off of the roof besides Kallah?"

"Oh! That was Grandpa!" proclaimed a smiling voice behind them. Jaina and Thrall both swiveled around so fast that they nearly fell off the roof themselves. Kallah stood there, smiling hopefully up at them."

"Kallah! Did you not promise to stay inside?" Thrall scolded after his initial surprise.

"…Um… Well, technically I promised to stay inside for _last night_…"

Her parents glanced at each other, each silently berating themselves for not phrasing their words properly. Then they looked back at Kallah. "What do you mean, 'that was Grandpa'?" Jaina inquired after a moment.

"He… He broke the shingles while catching me," Kallah tried to elaborate.

Jaina blinked and Thrall frowned. "Are you saying that he _slid_ down after you?" the orc asked incredulously.

Kallah bobbed her head happily, and came up between them to look at the damaged roof. Thrall and Jaina shared confused looks over their daughter's head.

"He… _could_ have done it. Physically, I mean," Jaina allowed slowly. "He's used to maintaining his footing on bucking ships in the middle of wild thunderstorms. He could… _theoretically_… have slid down, grabbed her, and successfully pulled himself back up."

"…Theoretically?" Thrall asked after a moment.

"Well… It's quite a leap to say he _would_ have done it."

Thrall smirked. "I thought you trusted him?"

Jaina snorted. "Not _that_ much. Daelin might stay his hand against her… But _rescue_ her? She might touch a soft spot or two when it comes to him, but he's still Daelin, and she's still a half orc. By that virtue alone, he should utterly hate her. Letting someone die is a lot easier than just killing them. I wouldn't have put it past him to have just allowed her to fall."

"Well, he _did_ push her off."

"He only manages to tolerate her by stubbornly ignoring the fact that she exists. I doubt he'd feel responsible enough for his actions to want to save her."

"He said that he caught her to save his own neck. That could even explain why he bandaged her up afterwards."

Jaina nodded, accepting this explanation. Kallah blinked, looking up in confusion at her parents. The little girl hadn't the foggiest idea that her family set-up was strange. She didn't know that orcs and humans had ever fought- much less that her Grandfather hated her. All the talk of death and killing (which she hardly understood, either) was baffling her.

Her grandpa seemed mean at times, but also confused and upset. When he'd pushed her, he'd seemed more spooked than anything. And hadn't he saved her, and said he was sorry, and… and…

"But I _like_ Grandpa," she suddenly protested. "He even brushed my messy hair!" she continued, spouting the culmination of her mental processes.

Her parents blinked at her in confusion.

"After he bandaged me up," she supplied, realizing that she'd left out some crucial details.

Her parents blinked at _each other_ in confusion. Both individuals thought back to how Daelin had butted into their argument. His tone had been rife with disdain, but that could have been attributed to how disgusted he was at Thrall's presence. Still, the manner in which he had chosen to approach then, with Kallah hiding behind his leg…

His choice in words: **"Are we interrupting something?"** And later, his dry response to Kallah's assertion that he'd pushed her off the roof: **"Thanks, kid."**

Why hadn't he let them argue? If their relationship was strained, they might have lost interest in one another. Hell, the whole orc-human alliance might have started to crumble. Why choose to interrupt at that moment? Why speak with such disdain? Why let Kallah cling to him, and then rebuke her almost amiably?

…

It occurred to both leaders, at around the same exact moment, that Daelin Proudmoore had interrupted because he felt it was wrong for them to argue where she could hear. He had been protecting her. And that was the strangest revelation at all: not only did Kallah like her grandfather, but _he_ in turn liked _her_.

* * *

Ahn'Qiraj

Dear Journal,

It took the five mages (Am I a mage? Hmm. Good question. I suppose that since I can't conjure bread, the point is moot) in the party around an hour to feed Ouro the Sandworm.

No, silly. Ouro didn't eat _them_. It ate all the bread they conjured! Honestly, what did you think we were? Cannibals?

Anyway, after that Ouro was very fat and sleepy, so Nathanos made it run circles around the arena to get it all worked up again. When Ouro was full, happy, and ready to smish something, we all headed back to the wall between where the now deceased prophet Skeram used to be, and C'Thun, which was at the front of the temple, and Nathanos didn't like it, but he thought that climbing was a bad idea.

Hmm, maybe I shouldn't narrate things. My grammar of grasp be shoddy-bad. That, and I think I'm writing this journal on the hind quarters of a small pig. What was I thinking? I should obviously have used a dung beetle. That way, when I wrote using my black ink, everything would be invisible.

But I suppose it can't be helped. A man's gotta do what a woman's gotta do, and walking bones can't do everything, you know? Of course they are very good at attacking things, which is what they are doing now.

What was I talking about again? Oh yes, of course! Now that we've finished gastropods, please turn the page in your textbook to look at _megadriles_ (more commonly referred to as Earthworms).

Say, I knew this ranger lord once who tamed an earthworm, and used it as a mount. Oh! And a battering ram! You see, when Ouro was full, happy, and ready to smish something, we all headed back to the wall, which Nathanos didn't like, but he thought that climbing was a bad idea. Then he had Ouro just smash through the wall and send mortar flying everywhere! I suggested that Ouro just dig under the wall, but that might have led to ambushes, and besides, Ouro was being used as a battering ram, and I like bats _and_ rams.

Now bats come from the order of _chiroptero_, but they are not chiropractors. Most actually prefer to engage in entomology, the study of insects. They even go so far as to participate in entomophagy, the practice of eating insects.

The Qiraji are also insects. I wonder if they'd be easy to defeat with an army of bats from the Undercity? You know what's also very strange? I don't remember any bats being used by undead prior to six years ago. I thought all bats were used by the island trolls- but you never seem to see that any more. Maybe I'll ask the trolls here about it later. They're fighting too, along with Ouro, and the skeletons, and the orcs, and the humans, and the tauren, and the night elves, and the blood elves, and the dwarves, and the gnomes, and the other undead. We're fighting this big eyeball thing named C'Thun that's bathing in a pit of what appears to be oil.

I'm confused by all of this, because even a gargantuan eyeball would still be relatively easy to pierce with a blade, and yet this one has resisted all our attacks so far. I-

* * *

(cont.)

At this point in time, a green beam lashed forward from the giant eyeball. It ripped through the crazy old necromancer, and then jumped over to blow to smithereens the flamingo he was writing on. The necromancer gasped, not in pain (for it didn't appear that he felt any), but in alarm. He looked silently at the tattered remnants of his journal/flamingo for a long moment, and then sniffled. With sad and lamenting gestures, he used his pen to write out "Sincerely, Flower," on one of the deceased flamingo's feathers. "Poor Piggie," he said sadly. He lifted his head to look at C'Thun's giant eyeball. It seemed to him as if the eye was _laughing_ at him (despite the fact that hitting him had been an accident- the eyeball had actually been trying to blast the smithereens out of Ras. In fact, the eye was already turned in a different direction). The necromancer scowled darkly. He picked up his staff and slowly clambered to his feet.

Piggie would not have died in vain.

Ras was mildly worried when the eccentric necromancer stood up. The old man rarely fought personally. He generally summoned up a few skeletons at the beginning of every battle, or cast a few curses. Then he'd grow bored and totter off to find something more interesting. He was actually fairly useful. His curses were pungent, and his undead were exceptionally powerful. On the other hand, Ras would have to watch over him for the course of an entire battle. If he lost track of the necromancer for a second, the eccentric man was liable to end up eaten by something.

It had happened several times already.

Like Nathanos, Ras really couldn't explain why he cared about the necromancer's well being. He supposed it had to do with multiple things - not that least of which was the fact that the necromancer was really quite helpless, and hadn't a wit to his name. It made the ex-lich feel responsible for whatever happened to him. Furthermore, the necromancer's constant babbling at least added some variety to an otherwise monotonous desert existence.

In any event, Ras was mildly worried when the necromancer stood. Worry quickly turned to bafflement as he saw electricity rippling along the necromancer's staff and robes. The old man (or 'Flower', as he may or may not have been named; he had signed that name on his flamingo/journal, but then any man who keeps a flamingo as a journal has issues too convoluted to make sense of) glared at the eye of C'Thun. Flower's eyes were completely and entirely gold. He lacked pupil, iris, or white. Those eyes now glowed brilliantly, and sparked as if giving off electrostatic discharge.

C'Thun's eye suddenly paused. It swiveled around and aimed directly towards the necromancer, its massive pupil contracting in order to bring him fully into focus. There was a moment of silence, and then the massive eye began to turn a dark and ugly red. Electricity rippled around Flower's feet, and up the length of his staff.

"For Piggie!" the necromancer snarled, whipping his staff in the giant eye's direction. An explosion of lightning burst from the tip, arcing directly towards the massive orb. Simultaneously, blood-red light burst forward from eye's pupil, designed to utterly vaporize the old man.

Ras's eyes widened, and he conveyed his dismay in a terse, yet descriptive manner: "Shit."

* * *

The Dark Portal

The sky in the Blasted Lands was permanently shrouded with clouds. The terrain had once been a vast swamp, and the climate remained exceptionally wet. Lightning ripped constantly across the skies. Flash floods were both common and lethal. Any creature that thrived in such a land did so by utilizing the many mountains in the region.

But now the sky stood very still. There was no lightning, nor rain; there was not even any wind.

Furion only had a minute or so to dwell on Ember's loss. Quite suddenly, and without any prior warning, every hair stood up on the back of his neck. A tingling sensation rushed over him, alighting upon every last remaining nerve. He shivered and lifted his head, his mouth creasing into a puzzled frown. Everything seemed unnaturally still and quiet. The void where noise and commotion should have been was filled with a thick and weighty silence.

Something was happening.

He stood slowly, breathing in the scent of the surrounding landscape. The air was so moist he could almost taste it. Around him, many warriors lifted their heads, sensing the change in the atmosphere. They shared worried glances with one another, all wondering what the heavy silence portended. Everyone- even the eccentric goblins and the brutish orcs - spoke quietly, as if they feared they'd be reprimanded if they conversed too loudly.

Malfurion closed his eyes, listening intently to the world around him. Beneath the sounds of rustling armor and soft mutterings, he could hear the earth churn and the sky tremble.

"I am here," the archdruid murmured. "What is it…?"

---

The first thing that Ember experienced upon arriving in Outland was an overwhelming sense of vertigo. She felt torn from her conscious body, as if she were sitting far back inside her head and watching everything through a thick fog. All higher thought had ceased. All that was left was an unconscious sensation that something was wrong.

Very wrong.

What was most bizarre about all of this is that she evidenced no physical sign of her mental upset. She did not faint or stumble. Instead, she accompanied Zul'vii away from the portal, down to where a tremendous battle was raging between the forces of Azeroth and the Burning Legion. She tried to speak, to voice that something was wrong.

She couldn't remember how. And yet she was speaking to Zul'vii, asking about the fighting. She couldn't remember how to move her arms, and yet she was pointing curiously at the demonic front. She couldn't feel anything. She could hardly hear.

---

Shouts suddenly rang out around Malfurion. The stillness was disturbed as soldiers began running around. They gave off a scent reminiscent of fear. He opened his eyes and looked up. Above him, the clouds were on the move. Clouds from the mountains spiraled down and mixed with clouds blowing in from the Swamp of Sorrows. The sky where they met was so black it seemed to absorb all light. And then the silence was broken; there was a shrieking crackle as a thick bolt of lightning slammed down into the Dark Portal. The clouds gave a deep bass rumble, and then the lightning struck again, and again. A wall of wind slammed into the area, uprooting several tents and sending them flying off across the Blasted Lands. The tormented air shrieked and howled. Meanwhile, the mingling clouds were slowly beginning to spin together. Between them, an elegant black finger stretched towards the ground- a funnel cloud.

--

Archimonde was satisfied. A thousand subtle manipulations and tiny suggestions had finally born fruit. He scanned the lines of Azerothian fighters, looking for weaknesses in their formation. All he had to do was be patient. One well-placed step, one surge of demonic power, and both he and his host body would be safely within Legion clutches.

And if he were exceptionally lucky, he'd get to kill an angel in the process.

As for 'Ember'… For her, all was now numb. All quiet… Her sight faded, but she could not remember that it had ever existed. She couldn't remember walking through the portal, or where she was. She couldn't remember being anywhere. She couldn't remember _being_. She couldn't remember…

She couldn't…

She….

Then nothing.

Just Archimonde.

--

Furion tilted his head to the side in bewilderment, staring at the funnel as it slowly lowered itself towards the Dark Portal. Lightning struck again, and again, and again.

"I don't understand," he whispered quietly in Nightelfin. "I'm sorry… I don't…" The funnel touched down, ripping apart the land. Even so, it seemed to do no damage to the portal itself; it merely tore up earth, and bumped gently against the portal's surface. "Why…?"

--

Outland trembled. At the Legion Front, almost every demon and Azerothian lost his or her footing. The entire battle turned into a jumble of confused bodies. The shockwave originated at the Dark Portal, but it was felt as far away as Tempest Keep, the Black Temple, and Oshu'gun. It should be noted that Tempest Keep floated _in midair_. It was in no way, shape, or form, connected to the ground. No earthquake would have budged it in the slightest, and yet it trembled so vigorously that many of its inhabitants tripped over themselves.

Zul'vii landed on her head and was momentarily dazed. Archimonde alone did not fall. He released Zul'vii's hand as she went tumbling to the ground, and turned to look curiously at the Dark Portal. What he saw amazed him. A delicate, jet black tendril of whirling air was jutting out from the surface of the portal and ripping up Draenor's red terrain.

Archimonde the Destroyer had conquered many worlds in his long existence. He had come to see them as little islands - intriguing but powerless, helpless against the combined might of the Burning Legion. Azeroth was just another world in a long line of worlds. Its power was localized and weak- not broad and all-encompassing like Sargeras' wrath.

And yet somehow, for the third time, no less, Azeroth herself challenged him.

Waves of agony shot up his arms as Ember's organic battle-claws buried into his flesh. Vines coursed through his muscle structure, fusing his hands to the insides of the claws. He made no sound, staring in bewilderment as his flesh dissolved and became one with the wooden weapons. Another shockwave burst through the ground, knocking over every warrior that had managed to stand. This time, Archimonde landed upon his posterior.

He blinked, and looked up at the Dark Portal. A second funnel cloud was forming, this one from Draenor's own green sky. The twister arced gently down to earth, danced around the first tornado, and pushed through the portal to tear up the Azerothian side.

--

"I don't understand," Furion whispered again, watching the two tornadoes dance. Neither was harming the portal, and yet both seemed to be attacking the land around them with vigor. Was Azeroth attacking Draenor? And if so, why? Were they attacking, or were they… absorbing? His thoughts were too cluttered, his emotions too frayed. He felt that nature - not just Azeroth, but all of nature- was trying to convey to him an urgent message, and yet he could not grasp what it was trying to say. Deep inside, he was distracted by one prevailing thought: if only Ember had remained in Azeroth a minute more… then she would have been trapped on his side.

Ember…

Furion stiffened. Ember? It… It couldn't possibly be that this storm…?

Lightning rippled across the sky for miles and miles, all at once. Furion quivered, and shut his eyes. The two twisters laced together and then joined - one solid power fueled by two separate storms - two separate worlds. One whole, desegregated nature. The wind coursed powerfully around Furion, blocking out all other sounds. The archdruid smiled lightly, at last understanding.

"She's yours, isn't she? You're the other side, fighting against him. Thousands of ancestral spirits died that day, sacrificing themselves to stop him. But they were spirits of _this_ world… Now you need to tie her to _that_ one… You need to be able to reach her through Draenor… Just as you reach her here…

--

Nagrand. In orcish, the name meant "Land of Winds". It was the last fertile place in all of Draenor. There, ancestral spirits wandered the countryside. Elementals conversed with Mag'har Orcs. Broken Draenei began to communicate once more with the Light. It was a place of power, and of healing. It did not _quite_ resemble old Draenor - for example, its sky was blue rather than the old Draenor green…But it came so very close.

And in its center was seated the great white mountain, Oshu'gun. Nagrand and Oshu'gun were intimately connected, and the mountain was by far the land's most noteworthy feature. Oshu'gun was made entirely out of diamond. Over the years, it had served as many things- a ship for the ancient Draenei, a sacred meeting ground for the ancient orcs…

Lightning struck its surface, causing the mountain to gleam brightly against the darkening sky. Orc and Draenei looked in unison up to the great mountain, and mused quietly over what the storm could mean. The spirits around them froze in their wanderings, listening intently for nature's words.

--

Ember screamed long and hard as consciousness restored itself. She could feel _things_ pouring into her, energy and life coursing through her. Her entire being was on fire, and her arms burned where she and nature became one. And then suddenly, vertigo overwhelmed her again, pushing her back. Primal sensations overwhelmed her, as other spirits sought control over her body. This time, she understood that she was losing herself - not to Archimonde, but to something else.

"No! NO!" she screamed. "I am Ember! I AM EMBER! My father is Furion, my mother is Tyrande, my uncle is Illidan, my brother is Fenuine! I am Ember! EMBER!" Her legs shook beneath her, but she threw back the veil of fog, and the warring spirits, and the frustrated demon. She heaved herself to her feet, and glared defiantly up at the sky.

"_I AM EMBER_!"

Lightning exploded through the sky.

"EMBER! EMBER STORMRAGE!" she shrieked.

Thunder sounded, but rather than being sharp and explosive it was soft and rumbling.

Her entire body shook violently. Tears cascaded down her cheeks. She'd bitten her tongue during her screaming, and she could taste blood in her mouth. For a moment, the war in her head stopped.

"Please…" she whispered.

"Please," Furion said softly, a world away. "Please help her."

"Please help me…" she murmured brokenly. Her whole being ached and her heart felt like it was ready to burst. "I am not territory…"

A gentle breeze brushed up against her cheek. The twisters parted, and carefully oozed back up into the cloud layer. Ember shuddered, and then collapsed, exhausted.

* * *

YARG! 


	9. Friendship

PS: I do not like the broken draenei models in WoW, and have only partially accepted Akama's new appearance. Personally, I liked him better from War3. I also dislike the eredar in the game, as they're just darkly-tinted versions of the draenei. Furthermore, Far Seer Nobundo's model irritates me. He's dressed entirely in cloth (He's a Shaman! He should be in MAIL!), he has no hair (His hair was really cool…), his hands have just been scaled up to a ridiculous size, as opposed to being modeled differently, and his feet look like hooves (They're supposed to be claws). I am much more fond of the concept art that's been done of him looking into a pool of water and seeing his reflection.

Oh my god, I so did not have enough space in order to present all the sections I wanted to! Gahhh! My head is going to explode with too much in it! Not enough space…. To fill… with what Kyn wants… to say… I MUST WRITE FANFICTION FASTER!

Woo! This chapter only took one week! ONE WEEK BABY! ...Erm, sorry...

* * *

_**Friendship**_

* * *

The Exodar, Azuremist Isles

The Exodar. Such was the name of the ship that carried the draenei from Outland to Azeroth. It had crashed, quite conveniently, in the Azuremist isles. Since then, the draenei had converted the ship into their capital city. It was a bizarre place, made of metals no Azerothian had ever seen, and oozing magic from every inch of its surface.

Jaina stood in the main entryway to the city and looked around herself in awe. She had never before visited the Exodar, and immediately regretted this fact. Now that she thought of it, she regretted everything about her interactions with the draenei. The Lady Proudmoore had been preoccupied with so many things: among them the Dark Portal, Silithus, and the orcs. As a result, she had not set aside any time to better know her new allies. The more she saw of the Exodar, the more she regretted the fact that she had not found the time to visit earlier.

All around her were crystalline structures of unknown purpose. Soft violet light blanketed the surrounding area like a curtain. The Exodar was beautiful and overwhelmingly intricate. The sorceress blinked and tilted her head to the side. Her eyes focused on the immense crystalline structure in the center of the entry room. Violet light spiraled down around it. What ensnared Jaina's attention was neither its size, nor the obvious magic endowed in it. Rather, the subject of the lady's interest was a soft voice that seemed to call to her from beneath it. The sorceress inclined her head to the side out of curiosity, and then slowly approached the structure.

As she got closer, she saw more clearly the nature of the Exodar's architecture. To the side of the crystals, a great staircase wound its way downward. After a moment of pondering, Jaina headed towards it, and quietly began her desent into the lower levels of the structure. The staircase was long and traveled deep into the earth; by the time Jaina reached the last step, her curiosity had risen to astronomical levels, and she was made even more certain that something was calling to her.

She was not disappointed. At the very bottom of the winding staircase hovered a being unlike anything the sorceress had ever seen. It seemed to be composed of many metal plates, all engraved with strange runes. These plates floated in midair, and were held together by what seemed to be a manifestation of light itself.

The being shifted lightly, and appears to turn towards her. Its white light intensified somewhat, and its blue plates shifted. Jaina blinked, and gazed at it a moment. Then she slowly moved up to it, so that she might see and sense its aura more fully. And then, suddenly, it spoke. Its words were more like soft music coursing through her bones than any actual sound.

"_Greetings, Jaina Proudmoore."_

The sorceress blinked, but was by no means struck speechless with awe. Instead, she conveyed her wonder and admiration in an utterly different fashion. The Lady Proudmoore stepped up to the being and slowly lifted a hand to touch its shimmering blue plates. She could sense the being's amusement, but did not mind; it was so fascinating that she could not possibly have restrained herself.

"_I must say, that in all my time among the draenei, none have ever been so brave as to touch me. You humans are a curious race."_

Jaina blinked and blushed slightly, drawing her hand backwards. "I am sorry if I offended you."

The being's laughter rolled through her mind like the tinkling of many bells. _"Fear not, little sorceress. I was merely remarking. I am O'ros, a naaru. My people champion the cause of the Holy Light."_ Jaina blinked and inclined her head to the side. She took a second look at the being's plate arrangement. Its symmetric, angular patterns almost made it look as if it sported wings…

"Are you angels, then?"

The Naaru seemed surprised at her deductions. It thought about her question for a long moment before responding. _"By a broad definition of the term, I suppose we are. Naaru means born of light. We were created of the light, and we embody the light."_

"So… do you have a gender?"

The naaru seemed to stare at her, utterly baffled by her tone and question. At last, it started to laugh. _"Such a strange creature you are, Lady Proudmoore. I have dwelled here for over two years, and no one has approached me with that question."_

"Well, it seems a logical question to me," she answered innocently. "Right next to 'What is the meaning of life?' and 'What exactly _is_ in mystery stew?'."

The naaru laughed even more. It seemed so pleased by the mundane conversation that it decided to answer her first question. _"If one were to divide our race and make distinctions based on the human concept of gender, then I am male."_

"And you're just going to leave me clueless on the stew part?"

"_Some things are better left unknown."_

"So, do you have all kinds of restrictions on when you can intervene in combat, and whether or not you can tell me certain information?"

"_More or less. That, and we like to maintain an air of mysteriousness."_

"Mmm." Jaina pondered, searching for any question that might be concrete enough for the naaru to answer. "Do the naaru have any interest in the affairs of the undead?"

"_Contact me in a few years when we can tell whether or not our efforts in Outland have born fruit."_

"Well at least you have a sense of humor," she noted.

"I see I am not the only one drawn to this place," came a voice from behind her.

Jaina blinked and turned quickly about. Behind her stood a very peculiar being. Even at first glance, Jaina could tell he was no ordinary draenei. His nose had recessed entirely, and was now no more than two slits in the curves of his face. The thick, slightly blocky planes that made up a normal draenei face had sort of melted together, creating a visage long, gaunt, and haggard. His mouth had become somewhat enlarged and filled with thick, sharp teeth. The tentacles sprouting from his jawline had thinned somewhat, while his hair had bunched itself into three similar tentacles behind his head. Most of his body was covered in cloth or mail armor, and even his face was concealed somewhat by his hood. Still, she could see that his hooves had long since devolved into claws, and his hands had gone from five fingers to three.

It occurred to her, suddenly, that he must have been one of the Broken, a race of draenei that had regressed somewhat due to demonic corruption. On second glance, she noticed strange patterns on his mail armor, and was made particularly curious by the power she felt emanating from his simple wooden staff. It took her a moment, but she eventually realized what these characteristics all reminded her of.

"Are you… a shaman?" she inquired curiously. From everything she knew, the draenei were worshipers of the light, and the profession of "shaman" was almost wholly exclusive to the Horde. Still, the orcs and draenei had _both_ come from Outland. Surely this meant that if one had engaged in Shamanism, the other could as well? The Broken draenei seemed surprised by her question. He regarded her a moment, before nodding.

"You are perceptive. My name is Far Seer Nobundo." He inclined his head to the side and regarded her with light blue eyes for a moment. "How strange. It seems the elements are with_ you_ as well…

Jaina blinked, taken aback. She had done well in her lessons with Thrall and Cairne, but she had never imagined that her dabbling would amount to anything… _measurable_. "Ah… I have… dabbled in the art of shamanism… But I am not a shaman, and I sincerely doubt the elements are 'with' me."

Nobundo chuckled and regarded her staff, which blazed with arcane energies. "Not even water?" he inquired gently. Jaina blinked. "Water Elementals, ice storms, frost bolts… An utter adoration for ships and sailing despite your more scholarly nature…"

The sorceress's eyes widened, and she found herself asking "How do you…?" even though she could have guessed as to the sources of his knowledge.

The Broken draenei merely smiled at her question. "You have communed with the elements longer than you know. You are just very bad at hearing or recognizing them. But water seems fond of you, just as she looks down favorably upon me." He lifted his eyes to O'ros, and gave a sad sort of smile.

"I come here, occasionally, to think… Do you know, I cannot hear his voice?" He looked at her. Jaina looked back at him in surprise. "Nor the voice of any naaru. As a Broken, I am cut off from the Light. I can no longer hear it, in any of its incarnations."

"That implies… that you once wielded it," she observed. He smiled mirthlessly and nodded.

"I was once a paladin."

That surprised her. Nobundo was a hunched and withered creature with a somewhat sickly disposition. He looked nothing like a crusader of the light- nothing even like a warrior. Only the breadth of his chest and the muscles in his arms indicated that he might have been well-schooled in martial combat. And yet, at one time, this Broken had been a full blown paladin warrior? Images of Uther appeared in her mind, and she realized that the draenei's deformities were far more than aesthetically displeasing. "What made you turn to shamanism?" she inquired.

He was quiet for a moment, before speaking. "Every day since I was cut off from the Light, I went up into the mountains to pray, to try and find that connection which I had lost. I did this for years, and years… And never once was there any answer. For a long time, I wondered if this was a failing of my own; if I had somehow deserved to be abandoned by it. It was only later that we discovered that we Broken are cut off from the Light due to how we were assaulted by demonic taint. The fault lay not within us, but within what we had suffered." He shifted his walking stick so that he was leaning on it more comfortably. "One day, when I went up into the mountains, a voice answered. It was not the voice I sought- the voice of the Light- but rather the voice of the wind."

"And so you followed it."

"I had no other choice… I had been abandoned by everything else around me, and the elements promised a way through which I might help my people and hold on to my sanity. At first, I had worried that I was straying down a dark path. I wondered if I was going through some type of test, and that I should deny the elements to prove my loyalty to the light."

"It seems to me that you were a remarkably devout paladin."

He chuckled slightly. "Or desperate. Eventually something occurred to me. The Light is a great champion against evil. It fights against the demons, and the undead. It is exceptionally good. But the Light itself is not perfect. It loathes corruption, and celebrates purity. Those who are imperfect, like I am, are not embraced by its warmth. We must seek other ways to do good in this world, and we must find other champions for our causes. I may always love the Light, but I now follow the path of the elements. It is they who shall lead me in my fight against darkness now, just as the Light once did long ago."

O'ros seemed to glitter a little sadly.

The Broken draenei smiled lightly, perhaps comforted by the fact that the naaru did not condemn him. He then looked back to Jaina. "Forgive me. I am already conveying my life's story, and I do not even know your name."

She smiled in response. "I'm certain Water could tell you."

"This is true, but I prefer to engage in actual conversation. Omniscience is so socially… limiting."

She grinned. "I am Jaina Proudmoore, sorceress and leader of Theramore Isle. I found your story quite fascinating, actually. I have never thought of the Light in that manner, and so it's always been difficult for me to truly analyze other faiths."

"Well. I am not trying to discredit the Light."

"Fear not. My beliefs are secure. I was just talking to O'ros before you arrived."

"I heard you. In fact, I've been meaning to ask you; _do_ Naaru have genders?" He gave a wry grin.

Jaina smiled from ear to ear. She turned to O'ros. "See! I told you! It's a very logical question!" The naaru chuckled lightly and Jaina looked back at Nobundo. "He says he's more-or-less male."

"I see," the Broken remarked sagely. "Well, you have come a far distance from Theramore. What has brought you to our city?"

"Curiosity, mostly," she confessed. "I've wanted to see the Exodar since the draenei first arrived, but I've put it off for years."

"Ah. Busy running a country?"

"You don't know the half of it."

He laughed lightly. "Your lighthearted spirit is refreshing. Such an attitude is generally uncommon among mages. I am glad to have encountered you." He pondered for a moment. "Would you perhaps like a tour of the rest of the Exodar?" he suddenly offered. "I have nothing much to do for the rest of the day, and it is nice to have someone to talk to."

"I would love nothing more." She turned around and gave a light bow to O'ros. "It was pleasant speaking with you. I hope I get a chance to do so again in the near future." The naaru gave what might have been its version of a bow.

"_I enjoyed our conversation as well. Please feel free to return at any time."_ She nodded, and then turned back to the brokBen.

"Lead the way, my new friend. I want to see _everything_."

* * *

Naxxramas

Mograine was an absolutely brilliant swordsman. Shadow energy pooled around him, augmenting his strength and speed. The Ashbringer flitted through the air like some type of butterfly, dashing forward, backward, and side to side. He used the weapon as if he were wielding a dagger- one handed and with unbelievable grace and finesse. Despite this flitting technique, ever blow he struck resounded with the full weight and power of a mighty greatsword.

Ketala found herself forced to use both of her blades in order to counter his, and he was forcing her to back up. Had she not been undead, her arms would have already gone numb with exhaustion at the sheer strength of his blows. She parried high, deflecting an overhead chop of his blade. Quite suddenly she was blocking a diagonal swing from the side with her other scimitar. She grimaced, trying to keep pace with him and to find any opening in his strikes.

And yet every time she tried to get a concrete hold on the situation, Arthas assaulted her mentally. In her vision she could see monstrous horrors appearing on all sides of her. Decapitated bodies were strewn around her. Blood ran from the walls. Worst of all, she could see Vaiden being ripped apart and devoured by abominations. Empathetic feelings of terror and revulsion flooded through her, and she fought as hard as she could to keep them repressed.

She blocked an underhanded stab. For a moment, she marveled at the ease with which he shifted grips on his blade. Then she was with Zeliek as he fled along Naxxramas's corridors, and at full gallop for the top of the floating ziggurat where the gargoyles roosted. All along his way she was deflecting undead, sending them scurrying back into their holes. Their minds were barely perceptive of hers, and she had to scream out her orders, forcing them back with sheer will.

Mograine took another swipe, this time at her head. She barely ducked in time, and lifted her blades to fend off one of his diagonal hacks. She could see Vaiden's eyes, from where he was with Zeliek, and the blood that was covering the boy's face-

No! No, Vaiden was not dead! That was an image sent to her by Arthas! She tried to shake it off, but realized that another blade was coming at her, a farmer's blade- NO! Mograine's! She was fighting Mograine!

"_Ketala!" _came Kel'thuzad's mental scream. _"Ketala, he is _destroying_ me! Stop!"_ She tried to reach out to her guardian and then retracted. No. Take care of Zeliek. Get Zeliek out! But Zeliek was already dead. Along with Nathanos. Along with Vaiden-

The paladin girl screamed in frustration, holy energy rushing through her being. Mograine jumped backwards, but she showed not the slightest indication of pain as the white fire licked his flesh. The Light had always been there, and would always be there. It was her sword and shield, and she suddenly clung to it like never before. The Lich King was trying to cloud her thoughts, and she had to be able to think straight in order to get Zeliek out.

The horrid visions faded somewhat, becoming translucent, but they did not disperse all together. Arthas had too firm a foothold in her mind, and she could not shake off his influence. Within the confines of her skull, she could hear the specter laughing. She ignored it, funneling holy energy through her body. She would defeat this.

"You fight well," the ex-Highlord remarked. "But you are succumbing. Too much of you already belongs to him." Ketala glared at the Highlord, taking full stroke of him. He wore beautiful bronze-colored armor that was obviously forged by a master craftsman. His shoulder pauldrons were raised to guard his neck, and the metal over his torso was arranged in bands, so that he might have greater mobility. He stood with the poise of a paladin, and yet his eyes burned with an unholy fervor. There was something inherently unnerving about him that Ketala could not quite place.

"I will never be his," Ketala answered. "I will not give in. My son is leaving here alive." He gave a short and mirthless laugh, and batted his sword at her almost effortlessly. She had to jump back a step to avoid shattering her arm.

"If Zeliek did not escape, you would disappoint Ner'zhul," the ex-Highlord remarked darkly. "Even now, even in your weakest state, he expects you to succeed. You are the ultimate weapon, the ultimate prize. He has slowly groomed you every moment up until this point."

This convinced her that Mograine was simply taunting her, trying to break her mind down. She put on a stoic face and smiled confidently. "Sacer et Lux," she murmured, and holy light rippled down the length of her blades. She directed undead away from Zeliek, and then concentrated back on Mograine."You know not of what you speak, Highlord. I owe nothing to Arthas. Kel'Thuzad raised me, Anub'arak trained me, and the paladins taught me to live. You are just hanging false prophecies in the air to break down my will."

Mograine smiled piteously. There was something utterly disturbing about such an expression on his face. It seemed genuine and yet perverse, corrupted by some internal malady. "Don't you understand?" he asked softly. "You are, and you always have been, Zeliek's replacement. He was a placeholder for you."

"And?" she asked, refusing to be thrown off by his words. She dropped her shield of holy energy and he came at her again. Her blades flashed against his, now and then teaming with holy energy.

"Now, now," the deathknight admonished. "Think more carefully." She snorted and blocked three more of his blows before the meaning of his words rushed in on her. Her eyes widened and she stared at the ex-Scarlet Highlord. "You… you imply that the Lich King knew he would lose Zeliek…"

Mograine nodded sagely. "Of course, Ketala. He planned your first meeting with Zeliek." She tried to think over what Mograine was saying, but it was so difficult, what with ignoring Arthas's visions and bringing Zeliek to safety.

"That makes no sense," she hissed. "Why would the Lich King rejuvenate my hope by leading me to Zeliek?"

"To further your loneliness when he is gone. To further crush your spirit. Do you not understand, Ketala? Every move you make has been dwelled on and choreographed by him."

"I defy him!" she answered the fallen paladin, holy energy coursing around her.

"Yes. He knows. You are not like us, cannot be corrupted like us. You must actually fall. You must choose the darkness over the light. Can you not see it? You have ignored his hold on your mind, but now you are acutely aware. You can see how he pressed down on you, claiming you, destroying you. You cannot leave Kel'Thuzad, but he would kill you for power. You are alone, and you shall slowly dissolve, until Ner'zhul is the only name on your lips."

"Stop it!" she commanded, holy energy rippling through her once more as she thrust his blade away from her. The white fire burned at the Scarlet Highlord. She screamed and called down a blast of holy light on the ex-Highlord, but he counter with a shield of shadow and green fire. It had suddenly occurred to her what the sickly, disturbing aura around the deathknight was. Mograine had not simply fallen, or turned to darkness. He wasn't a puppet in the sense that Zeliek was. Rather, he reminded Ketala of another being altogether: Sylvanas' High Apothecary, Lydon.

In short, the ex-Scarlet Crusader was insane.

He smiled at her pleas that he desist. The unnatural breadth of his grin only further convinced her of his mental imbalance. The Ashbringer blade came at her face and she leaned to the side, whipping one blade up to block his next strike, and using the other to strike a hit on the ex-Highlord's side. Mograine chuckled and backed up a step so that he might bring his blade back into fighting position.

"You make me proud, little one."

"Oh? Why? Proud that at least some paladin will stand against him?"

"No. You were trained based on a conglomeration of the fighting skills of all of Ner'zhul's finest warriors. Did you honestly think Anub'arak knew how to wield a sword on his own? In ways, one could say I helped train you. You've scored a hit, so I say I am proud."

Ketala blocked another blow of his sword, uncertain of how to respond to this. "Why are you telling me these things? And for that matter, if you were telling the truth, why would Arthas allow you to speak with me?"

He smiled grimly and sent a blow her way that nearly knocked her clean off of her feet. "Because he already knows the path you will choose. He knows you won't let me kill you. He knows you're a fighter, that you will struggle all the way till your end. Everything that has happened to you so far, he has planned. Even this meeting. And instead of me convincing you to end your existence and escape him, you will live on, more doubtful and broken."

"Then why tell me?" she nearly shouted. Kel'Thuzad's screams of pain echoed through her mind, but she couldn't tell if they were real or fabricated by Ner'zhul's illusion.

"Perhaps I am hoping he is wrong, or maybe I have a sadistic streak. Most likely, I simply don't have a choice. I am sentient, and yet I am just a puppet, and he knows all my strings."

She tried a spin in an attempt to get another strike on his body. The result was that she missed a parry, and the Ashbringer ripped a crack open in her armor. She grimaced and released a burst of holy energy at the ex-Highlord, just aggressive enough to let her back up and reorient herself. "And why help me, Mograine?"

"Because it is how I am attempting to cope," he answered without missing a beat. "It is irrelevant that my actions are futile. They give me a sense of purpose." She stared at him in amazement. Zeliek had finally reached the top of the flying ziggurat. There, a giant frost wyrm waited for him, accompanied by a flock of gargoyles. The second he was on the roof, the frost wyrm pounced upon his horse, and lifted all of them; paladin, child and undead steed; into the air. The gargoyles followed, tearing apart enemy undead that would dare impede the dragon's journey.

"How can you exist like this?" she asked of the deathknight. "As nothing more than a puppet! How can you kill for him? How can you wield that sickly blade, as it spews forth green taint? How can you not yearn for everything you were?"

He dashed forward, bull rushing into her and slamming her hard into the wall behind her. Her blades went straight through his armor and body, and protruded through the other side, but he seemed not to notice. He glared at her, although he was careful never to make direct eye contact. After a moment, he leaned forward, placing his lips near her ear.

"By embracing it," he whispered. Her eyes widened. "Tell me, Ketala… How do you survive knowing that he is in your mind? That he puppets your movements? That Kel'Thuzad is his pawn, and is working to destroy you? How do you survive knowing you have slaughtered countless in his name? You ignore it. You forget it. You make explanations for why you do it. And slowly, oh so slowly, you stop remembering why you hated it in the first place. It's too much to handle, and you must cope… So you learn to love it, to accept it…" She shivered, and he smiled. "There is only one way out, and so far few have taken it."

"Death," she whispered.

He smiled, and lifted the Ashbringer with his free hand, moving to stab down at her with the blade. She grunted and ripped her blade out of his body and to the side, and then snapped it up with lightning speed to deflect the oncoming blade. Mograine blinked, and looked at her rather sadly. His gaze was utterly unnerving.

"Why?" he inquired.

She shivered again, and swallowed dryly before answering: "I have to try. I cannot give up, because I have to try. If I do not, who will? If I can't fight him, who can be expected to?"

"He will consume you, and you will become his pawn."

"I cannot leave the people who need me most. If I fail, who will save them?"

"Who will save them from you?"

"No one. I will not let it go that far."

"You will have no choice-"

"I am sick of your finalities!" she finally shouted. "I am stick of destiny, sick of fate! I am sick of being a pawn, sick of inevitabilities! I will fight him, and I will succeed!"

"You will fall."

"I will succeed!" she reiterated, even more confidently than the first time.

"Why do you believe that, when all evidence points to the contrary?"

"Because I must have faith in something! I must have hope! If I do not fight, no one will! I am all that's left! I do not have the choice of failing! Against all odds, against all destiny, I must somehow find a way to defeat him!"

He tilted his head to the side in the most peculiar of manners, his brown hair shifting around his shoulders. Then he slowly released her, and stepped backwards. Her second scimitar slipped out of his body with a disturbing, slurping sound. He placed a hand to the wounds, and felt the bloody ichor that leaked from the holes. Then, after a moment, he lifted his eyes to her face. The ex-Highlord stood motionless for a long time. He then slowly sank to one knee, and planted his sword in the ground before him.

Ketala hesitated, staring at him. Then she carefully approached him, and reached her mind forward to touch his. She was met with a chaotic, blackened whirl of hatred and filth. The darkness almost overwhelmed her and she stumbled backwards, blinking in shock. The darkened mind heaped a chaotic message together of broken grime, and then thrust it towards her. The resulting telepathy filtered into her brain like putrid sludge:

"_Command me, My Lady. I am yours."_

* * *

Ahn'Qiraj Temple, at the Eye of C'Thun_  
_

"For Piggie!" Flower shouted. Electricity rippled forth from his staff towards the great eye of C'Thun, while a beam of red light shot forth from the eye's pupil towards him. Both launched their attacks at almost the same moment. The actions happened so quickly that the rest of the party wasn't fast enough to protect the necromancer.

The lightning crashed into the eye. The dark red beam tore through the space where Flower was standing.

For some reason, there was quite a spectacular explosion- something probably attributed to a hyperactive CIG department. In any event, when the explosion cleared, the Eye of C'Thun was rolling madly and emitting a high pitched whining noise, as electricity rippled over its surface. Its pupil was opened wide and its membrane was pulsing violently. Flower was missing.

For a moment, Ras felt both relieved and slightly saddened. Then he heard the Necromancer's distinctively erratic voice yelling "And take that! And this! And some of these!" He blinked and looked towards the eye, where the Necromancer was kicking quite ineffectually at its surface. The charged nature of the eyeball caused him to get shocked with every kick, and his beard and hair were both standing on end. From across the room, Ras saw Nathanos lift a brow and display his characteristic "What… The Nether… Was that…?" expression. Even Ouro _seemed_ to find the situation strange enough to merit staring, although Ras wasn't precisely certain; he couldn't tell whether the worm had eyes or not.

In any event, the stillness lasted but a second, and then the whole of the raiding party was bearing down on the eye and hacking at it with anything they had readily available. Nathanos shook his head in dismay at all the people who were, subsequently, getting electrocuted. He shrugged, drew his bow out, and began peppering the eye with arrows.

At last a moan slowly emerged from the great eye. It shriveled slightly and rolled to an uncomfortable looking angle.

An irritated sounding rumble echoed through the area. The raid members slowly backed off. They killed a few of C'Thun's tentacles that had popped up in the surrounding area, and then watched as the eye slowly sank down into the black gook beneath it. This was even more unnerving due to the fact that the raid members had stood on that gook just moments before, and had detected no sudden drop off in its depths.

The eye vanished entirely beneath the depths of the black gook. All was silent.

And then the ground rumbled.

And then suddenly a soft voice reached out to the party. Every member of the raid heard it; each as if a being were whispering just beside their ears _"Your heart will explode," _murmured the voice.

And then, quite suddenly, a massive mound of flesh and teeth began pushing its way up from the ooze. Tentacles swarmed around its base, and great eyes peered out at all who were assembled. The voice came again, whispering almost intimately:

"_You are already dead."_

And then tentacles burst up from the ground and wormed forward, grasping at the individuals that defied it. Nathanos swore in irritation. He motioned to Ouro and the worm shot forward, plowing headlong into C'Thun's massive body. There was an audible crack, as the two titans collided, but the voice merely chuckled. A great shield had formed between C'Thun's body and Ouro's, staving off the brunt of the attack. The old god shifted, moving forward prehensile finger-like appendages and wrapping them around the worm. Atop of C'Thun's bulk was a massive ring of teeth- teeth that surrounded a mouth of enormous size. Tentacles wrapped around Ouro, and pulled the worm off the ground. The great teeth clutched around Ouro's bulk and punctured the creature's carapace.

The worm screamed.

C'Thun's body contorted and then extended. The mouth wrapped around the worm's body. Muscular contractions pulled Ouro in, tail and all. The Old God swallowed, and then his mouth opened again, hungry for more.

"_You are weak."_

The whole of the raiding party stared in dismayed silence. From where Ras was standing, he could hear Nathanos exclaimed, quite astounded, "It… ate… the worm…" Ras shook his head and then turned to look at Nathanos, and nearly panicked at what he saw. The undead ranger wore a look of incredulity on his face. And that was bad. Nathanos was _never_ surprised. The Ranger Lord sauntered confidently through _every_ battle. It didn't matter what was going on; no matter the odds, the circumstances, or the nature of the foe. In Ras' experience, Nathanos was never surprised. He had learned to count on the Ranger's uncanny foresight concerning every enemy they encountered.

And if _he_ had underestimated their foe… C'Thun's tentacles grabbed at party members. Some tentacles were _eating_ them, while others sported eyes that were shooting out explosive beams of light. The party was in a state of complete chaos.

Nathanos's brown eyes narrowed. "Get back to formation!" he snarled. "Fight off the tentacles, or you leave your friends to die, and forfeit your own lives!" He thrust his bow over his shoulder, and then ripped both of his axes from his waist. "No one," he hissed in a much softer voice. "Eats…" He bolted forward at an outright sprint, weapons ready. "My… _Pets_."

A grasping tentacle, equipped with neither spikes nor eye, burst up from the ground. It slithered around and then moved to slam down onto an unsuspecting night elf priest. Nathanos rammed into the priest and knocked her over. Then, Ras watched in horror as the tentacle ensnared Nathanos instead. It hoisted the ranger up into the air and gave him a flick. _"Your friends will abandon you."_

The Ranger Lord dropped straight into C'Thun's waiting maw.

Not. Good.

* * *

The Exodar

Jaina spent the whole day at the Exodar, looking around and marveling at all the strange things that the ship had to offer. She studied the holographs of demons, and spoke to mage trainers and portal masters, and all the while she held a very animated conversation with Nobundo. As a Broken, Nobundo was seen as something like a second class citizen by the majority of the Draenei people. Some still believed he should be exiled from the city, as he was tainted and unworthy to call himself kin to them. The Exodar could be lonely with all the pitying and hostile glances he had shot his way. Jaina, on the other hand, seemed not to care about his obvious physical corruption. She spoke with him as an equal, and seemed quite delighted to share his company.

Furthermore, the sorceress herself was an engaging person. She had a sort of bouncy disposition that defied the times they lived in. Her curiosity was boundless and her mood cheery. It was refreshing to see someone of such power and repute acting like an inquisitive youngling.

He smiled as she poked one of the demonic holograms. "So, Lady Jaina… I have told you much about myself and my people. What of you?" She blinked and looked over at him, before smiling. "Well, I was originally the princess of the sea-faring kingdom of Kul'Tiras… When I was little, I evidenced signs that I'd make a good mage, so I was sent to Dalaran to study arcane magic."

"Ah. That would explain how you ended up as a mage. I didn't see you as the power-hungry sort."

She chuckled lightly. "I don't feel power-hungry, but then you never know. Often such personality traits just sneak up on you, without warning. But no, I study magic because I find it mentally challenging. It's a great big puzzle to me."

He nodded, understanding. "You said you dabbled in shamanism. Where did _you_ learn of the elements?" Jaina paused, uncertain of how to respond. She lowered her hand from the hologram and mused for a moment. Nobundo blinked and looked at her curiously. "What stills your tongue, little one?"

Jaina smiled lightly and looked at the draenei. "An orc taught me," she said truthfully. He smiled and nodded.

"I had assumed as much. By your tone, I doubted you had encountered the elements like I had."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Not so much. I understand that the orcs were perverted by the demons. They were shamanistic once- and once, they were not our enemies." Jaina smirked.

"My respect for you grows, Nobundo. Not many people can relinquish hatred like that."

"I haven't… But I try. I still remember the orcs torturing woman and hurling them down from the sides of our city. Nothing will make me forget their screams."

Jaina regarded him a moment, and then gently laid a hand on his arm. He blinked, and looked at in surprise. "Nothing will make me forget the smell of Stratholme. A thousand corpses burning because of the crazed vengeance of a paladin… Humans are not perfect either. Nor, I suspect, are Draenei, if the eredar are any indication." He winced. "So I suppose the moral of the story is that we should not judge each other based on what the darker members of our races have done. The orc who teaches me shamanism is a kind being who wants only a home for his people. The same thing we all want. If we cling to vengeance it will consume us, and we will create more and more people who have suffered, just as we have."

He nodded quietly.

"Miss Proudmoore?" Jaina looked up in surprise to see, of all people, Tyrande Whisperwind standing before her. Tyrande was generally a battle-hardened sort. She smiled infrequently, but she had a certain strength to her that made Jaina proud to be female. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you," the sorceress said with a smile. "I was just talking to my new friend." The night elf leader looked uncertainly at Nobundo, and for a moment a flash of pity or disgust flashed over her face. Then it was hidden, along with everything else. The Broken draenei noticed it, but said nothing. He just smiled with his lips closed, so as not to expose his ragged teeth. "I am here to meet with Prophet Velen. Considering our global proximity to the draenei, I thought it polite to speak with him face-to-face."

Jaina nodded. "It's pleasant meeting you on such informal terms. I was just here to explore the Exodar."

Tyrande said nothing about that. She still remembered how Jaina had wandered around Teldrassil for a few weeks asking questions about everything in sight. The human was an abnormally curious being, and Tyrande had gotten used to it. "Have you met with Velen yet?"

"No… Not yet. I got distracted by the naaru."

Typical Jaina. Tyrande smiled inwardly and nodded outwardly. "Then you should. Although _I_ am well aware of how easily you are distracted, it still is not polite for a leader to wander around a city without ever once addressing the _city's_ leader."

Jaina lifted a brow, a little amused by the elf's condescending tone. She didn't bother to mention it out loud, however, and instead nodded. "Very well, then. I shall accompany you to meet the prophet." She looked back to Nobundo. "Will you come, or have I already soaked up too much of your time?" The shaman chuckled lightly and moved up beside her.

"I have little else to do, Lady Proudmoore. I shall come as well."

Velen had expected Tyrande Whisperwind to visit, but he was surprised when he Nobundo and a diminutive human at her side. The human… ah, yes. Jaina Proudmoore. Velen had gotten little time to speak with the human female. Most of his interaction had been with night elves and the humans of Stormwind. He smiled brightly and nodded first to Tyrande, and then to Nobundo and Jaina.

"Tyrande, it is a pleasure to meet with you again. But my, you bring interesting company."

"We actually encountered each other quite by accident," the night elf confessed. "The Lady Proudmoore had come out of curiosity, and I discovered her on the way to see you."

Jaina had only encountered Velen a few times, and she still found his appearance interesting. But then she found all draenei's appearances interesting. He was as tall as a night elf or tauren, and was of a mass somewhere between the two. His feet ended in two powerful cloven hooves, and his legs were recurved, much like a tauren's. His skin, however, was of a blue-violet hue. He was garbed in robes of white, red, and violet, and carried an elegant wooden staff in one hand. Most interesting were his forehead crest and tentacles, and the exceptional length of his white beard. Jaina would have to say that he reminded her of Antonidas, her mentor and the Archmage of Dalaran.

After spending the entire day with Jaina, Nobundo noticed the signs that she was quietly analyzing the Draenei leader. He chuckled lightly. Jaina blinked and gave a polite bow.

"Forgive me for not seeing you immediately, elder, but I lack manners and have a tendency to get distracted by anything that defies the laws of physics. Nobundo was just giving me a tour of the city when the High Priestess found me. I must say, you have a beautiful city."

Velen smiled lightly. "We make the best of what we have. I had intended to speak with Tyrande _and_ the Far Seer about the Dark Portal and the conflict in Silithus. I am told you are also invested in both activities. Perhaps you would like to join our discussions?"

"If Priestess Tyrande does not mind?"

The Night Elf shook her head. "Actually, I have been meaning to talk with you, Jaina. After these discussions, might I have a private word with you?"

The sorceress looked at her curiously and then nodded. "Of course. I'll even teleport you home."

* * *

Over the Plaguelands

The great frost worm ripped through the skies, gargoyles following like small fighter ships on all sides of it. Zeliek looked down at the ground below him. He swallowed hard. He was ashamed to admit it, but he was afraid of heighst. And he got seasick. And flying over the water without the bowels necessary to feel either vertigo or motion sickness was too much for him. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was not hundreds of feet in the air.

Vaiden clung tightly to Zeliek, his face buried into the paladin's cowl. After Zeliek had some time to reflect on this, he realized the boy had never been outside. Vaiden had only ever known the dark of Naxxramas, and his eyes were unused to the bright sunlight. The paladin opened his eyes slowly, and looked curiously down at the little child. The boy's skin was a soft gray. His hair was a mousy brown in coloration. It was shoulder length, and looked like it had been kept short using a sword blade. Zeliek smiled lightly at this, and then moved a hand to gently rub the child's back.

After a bit, he felt a strange warmth on his cheek, and he lifted his head. There, up in the clouds above him, the sun was peeking through. It warm rays spilled down onto Azeroth, and gave Zeliek's pale cheeks a sun kissed glow. The knight looked the yellow clouds, and then out at the air around him. _I'm free,_ he reflected. A small, ironic smile touched his lips. _I'm free…_ Had his tear ducts still been fully functioning, his face would have glistened with their product.

He closed his eyes, and shivered slightly. No taunting words filtered through his mind. No shadow clawed at him. He could no longer hear the laughter of Blaumeux and Korth'azz as they played with the corpses of the slain. Mograine's unnerving eyes were gone. When he attempted to move, he moved. He lifted his arm by his own will, turned his head of his own accord. _Free._

Vaiden lifted his head and squinted painfully past the uncomfortable light of the sun. He looked weakly over Zeliek's shoulder, towards where he knew his mother to be. His eye poised a silent question, and his mouth drew into a frown. He could sense her there, on the fringe of his mind, but did not know how to reach out to her. And moment by moment, he could feel her presence moving farther and farther away. This was not right. He had always been able to sense his mother, and she always been very close. His brows creased together, and he slowly reached out his arm, his little fingers straining back in the direction he had come from.

Zeliek blinked and looked at the little boy. He frowned as he realized the cause of Vaiden's concern, and he gently pushed the child back a bit, so that he might get a better look at the boy's face.

"Vaiden?" he asked gently. The child looked up at him, his eyes whirling a sickly combination of yellows and brownish pinks. The paladin winced and gently stroked over the boy's cheek with the back of his plated hand. "Hey, listen to me… You are going to see your mother again, alright? I promise you. But you're going to have to be brave for a little while, okay? She's going to be far away, and you're going to have to be brave 'til she gets to you."

The child frowned, but of course, said nothing. Ketala had mentioned, in her final instructions, that the child was mute. Due to this, Zeliek had no way of gauging whether the child understood a word he was saying. After a moment he pulled the child back against him, and tried soothing the little boy by rubbing his back and stroking through his hair.

"Your mother told me to take care of you, for a little bit. She said I'm supposed to take you to your father."

Vaiden perked up and looked at Zeliek. The paladin blinked in surprise, and then smiled. "Ah. Has she told you stories about him, too? Probably the better ones, though," he noted with a light chuckle. The little boy just looked at him, quite attentive. "Yes… I'll make sure you're safe, and take care of you. I will find your father and bring you to him. And I will make sure you see your mother again…" Vaiden regarded him for a moment and then lowered his head again, seemingly deep in thought. Zeliek sighed and looked out at the horizon. "… It is the least I can do." He closed his eyes, and then just let the power of the Holy Light funnel through him, warming him from the tips of his toes to the ends of his fingers. He smiled weakly and yet triumphantly. The realization had not yet _fully_ hit him, but every fiber of his being was starting to do joyful back flips. His dead heart called out in delight and exhilaration. _Free. Oh blessed Light: free!_

* * *

So... much... to write... So... little reviews... must... find... positive reinforcement...Yarg... 


	10. Different Perspective

Wow. I asked for positive reinforcement, and like 6 people just popped out of the woodwork to encourage! One lovely fellow even sent me a review stating the following words: "Positive Reinforcement." Never have I been so pleased, hehe!

Well, I was so delighted by the reviews that I was immediately inspired to write this next chapter. Yes! It only took a week again! woot!

* * *

**_Different Perspective_**

* * *

The Exodar

Jaina, Tyrande, Nobundo, and Velen spent several long hours discussing the various conflicts that faced their people. They spoke of Silithus, Northrend, and Outland. They spoke of the Nightmare in the Emerald Dream and the disruptions in the Cavern of Time. They spoke of the Scourge, and the Burning Legion, and Deathwing's legions. For the first time, Jaina felt comfortable and at ease in discussing politics with other Alliance members. Whenever she was speaking with officials from Stormwind, she generally found herself fighting a vicious battle on behalf of peace with the Horde.

"Out of curiosity, Miss Proudmoore, what draws you to the study of the arcane?" Jaina blinked, looking at Velen. The group was standing near a place of magical instruction in the Vault of Lights. Perhaps their proximity had spurred his curiosity.

"Well, I'm good at it," she pointed out. "People tend to be drawn to things that they are good at." Nobundo chuckled lightly. She smirked and elaborated. "I showed great potential for magic when I was young. My father sent me to Dalaran, the city of magic, so that I might further my education. I've loved it ever since. It's like a giant logic puzzle."

Velen nodded. "Ah. You must forgive me my curiosity. The Draenei generally abstain from arcane magic, because it is often associated with demons. The arts we practice here are carefully monitored. We want to ensure that we do not repeat the mistakes of the past."

It was a challenge of sorts, a gentle prod to determine the nature of her character. She smiled. "Believe me, Prophet, I know. But it is my calling in life, and so I shall attempt to curb it to my morals."

His lips turned up slightly beneath his white beard, and he nodded. "Then I shall not lecture you. I am certain you have heard all that there is to hear from Malfurion and our Lady Tyrande." He nodded politely to the night elf to eloquently assure her that he meant no offense. She took none.

Jaina chuckled, and decided to send a prod back. "Actually, they've talked to me the least. The person who lectures me most is, of all people, the orc Warchief." She immediately had the prophet's attention, so she continued without missing a beat. "He seems utterly terrified that one day my skin will turn red, and I will go marauding about the countryside." She looked innocently to the side to examine a magical structure. "He is a shaman, so I assume it's fairly easy to see why he has such loathing for demons."

"Is he the one who taught you?" Nobundo asked after a moment. Jaina looked to the Broken and nodded.

"For the most part."

"Taught…?" inquired Tyrande curiously, and Jaina could see Velen was thinking the same thing.

Jaina grinned lightly. "Shamanism. It was a culture exchange thing. I taught Thrall to do the waltz, and he has gotten me to dabble in shamanism. "

"The waltz?" the night elf asked, baffled.

"It's a dance."

Tyrande stared at her. "You taught him to dance?"

"It was very difficult. Have you ever had an orc step on your feet?" Jaina shuddered, and grimaced at the reminder of pain. "You heard of the meeting I orchestrated between he and Bolvar Fordragon, yes? Well, he needed to be able to dance. It was a ball."

"You taught an orc to dance and invited him to a ball."

"Haven't you heard any of the opinions about how scandalous it was? Geez, the night elves don't get _any_ juicy political gossip. Yes. I taught Thrall, son of Durotan, Warchief of the Orcish Horde, to dance. I got him to shave, put his hair up, and shed Orgrim's black plate. And then I got him to come to my ball and dance with me. After this, I got the leader of the Alliance to sit down and have a civil conversation with him. And now we are cooperating in Silithus and fighting side by side at the Dark Portal."

Tyrande wasn't one to show much emotion in public, but the slight arching of one of her elongated brows hinted at her thoughts.

"What? Did you think I was just moping around complaining about peace and not getting anything done? Just because I hate politics doesn't mean I don't understand them!"

"Durotan?" asked Velen, looking at the sorceress.

Jaina blinked and nodded. "Yes… Thrall, son of Durotan. He's of the Frostwolf clan. Orgrim Doomhammer passed on the mantle of Warchief to him upon the old orc's death."

Velen mused and stroked thoughtfully through his beard. "Thrall isn't an orcish name."

"It's a human word. It means slave. Thrall was raised in the orcish internment camps. He only found out about his people and his family after he broke out."

"And you say he is a shaman?"

"Yes."

"How very interesting…"

"You knew Durotan," she observed with surprise.

He chuckled lightly. "I _am_ very old, Lady Proudmoore, and the Draenei tried to make peace with the orcs on several occasions. Durotan was one of the few who resisted the influence of the demons. There was one point when I was his prisoner, and he set me free, claiming there was no honor in killing me."

He looked between Tyrande and her. "I have heard many stories about how the Burning Legion recently invaded this world, using not orcs but rather undead. I have heard about a battle at Mount Hyjal… I have heard of a joint effort between night elves, humans, and orcs… And I have also heard of the vanquishing of a very powerful eredar, named Archimonde. I would like to hear the entirety of this tale, from onset to present. I want to know exactly where the orcs stand, and where you stand, to know everything about all parties involved. And most of all, I want to hear about what happened to Archimonde the Defiler."

Tyrande and Jaina glanced at one another, and then looked back to Velen. "Well," the sorceress said after a pensive moment, "there is a lot of background to the story. The demons have tried to invade Azeroth many times before, not the least of which was with the orcs. But the tale really _begins_ in the Eastern Kingdoms, with a human prince by the name of Arthas Menethil…"

* * *

Thrallmar, Outland

Archimonde slowly opened his eyes and looked at his surroundings. He was lying down on a bed with fur covers drawn over him. Judging by the architecture, the building he rested in was of Horde make. His gaze came to rest at Zul'vii, who was asleep in a bed on the other side of the room. His eyes narrowed, and he kneaded the covers with his hands… with his wood claws…

Wait.

Not. Archimonde.

Ember shuddered and closed her eyes again. She drew her battle claws up to eye level, and then carefully pressed the cool wood gauntlets against her face. The claws had dissolved away her flesh beneath them, and melded to her. They were now a part of her, and could not be removed any more than normal skin. They were Nature's means of claiming her.

Not Nature either.

Ember grimaced and tried not to think, not to wonder or believe, and instead tried to merely _exist_. She tried to find that safe spot between passion and rationality. Her breathing slowly calmed as she managed to force herself into a blank, serene, instinctive state.

She was hungry.

Ember blinked and then climbed out of bed. She wandered over to where Zul'vii's backpack was resting against a wall, and rummaged through it. Inside she found several chunks of dried meat, which she proceeded to nibble on.

"_Ember."_ The voice was rough and orcish. Ember stiffed and looked around, but there was no one within in the room but her and Zul'vii.

"_Hush! You'll scare her!"_ came a much softer, more elfin voice.

"_She needs to know sometime!"_ That was the orcish voice again.

"_Yes, but you do just have to startle her while-"_

"_Why are we even doing this?"_

"_At least argue where she can't hear-"_

Ember blinked and cocked her head to the side, her brows drawing together in confusion. This was strange. Ember had always been aware of Archimonde, and to a lesser extent she had been aware of Nature, but neither of these beings had ever interacted with her. In fact, Ember was so much a part of them that she doubted if they actually _could_ speak directly to her. Suffice to say, actually hearing voices in her head was new, and the ones she heard now belonged neither to Nature nor demon.

"_Ember?" _asked a softer voice, piercing through the general argument that was going on within her mind. Ember gave her attention to it. _"I apologize for all the arguing. We haven't exactly learned to cooperate yet."_

She lifted a brow. This new voice was strange, and nothing like the voices of creatures Ember was familiar with. The voice chuckled lightly.

"_I am a draenei spirit. That is what we all are: ancestral spirits."_ Ember frowned lightly, and rubbed her clawed hands together, feeling over the wooden fingers. _"Yes. We are the reason Nature came in to you, and fought against Archimonde."_

Her eyes narrowed, and she growled, remembering how Nature had almost seized control of her, just like Archimonde had tried to.

"_Ah… But Nature didn't take you. She had every opportunity to, and yet she listened to your pleas. Furthermore, you would not exist without her. It is her fight with Archimonde that gives you your identity and your weak freedom."_

Ember snorted. She wouldn't have existed with Archimonde either, but that didn't make him any better. The draenei spirit chuckled lightly. The others had gone quiet to observe.

"_Yes, I know you're angry. But we want to help you."_

A night elf voice suddenly took over. _"We have been watching you for a long time."_

"_The night elves and tauren have been with you the longest," _continued another voice, perhaps one belonging to a tauren. _"We have grown fond of you…"_

"_And so we desire to help,"_ finished the draenei.

Ember gnawed on her food for a moment. She didn't want to think too hard about this matter, and yet her mind ached to further consider the draenei's offer.

"_It's alright, Ember. We'll hold him off. Part of your mind may be Archimonde's, but you've the same brain as any other night elf child. It will not fail you." _

The little girl closed her eyes for a moment, and then slowly formulated a question. _"You won't let Nature… eat me?"_

The night elf laughed softly. _"Of course not, Ember. And she doesn't want to 'eat' you any more."_

"… _Why?"_ Ember asked, bewildered.

"_You are her creation. Intentionally or not, she made you. And just as she does for all her other creations, she loves you. And she feels responsible for you. So now, Nature will not devour you. She is content with fighting off Archimonde."_

Ember mused, considering this information. _"How come I've never heard you before?"_

"_We've never been very strong before, so we weren't able to reach you."_

"_Where did the draenei spirit come from?"_

As was sensible, the draenei spirit answered._"Nature is one whole that stretches across all worlds, but she takes on different forms in each of them. When you came through the portal, you were only attuned to her Azerothian side. She had to reach you with her Outland side. She did that by calling us to you."_

The night elf took over._ "You are lucky. The battle claws that Malfurion gave you were the last thread that connected you directly to her. Had you not been wearing them, Archimonde would have been able to keep the Outland spirits at bay."_

Ember blinked and looked down at the claws.

"_Do you understand?"_

"_Sort of…"_

"_Good enough. Suffice to say, we are going to try and help you."_

"_How?"_

"_We can tell the difference between Nature, Archimonde, and you. We'll try and keep your identity more concrete."_

"_You can do that?"_

"_Little one, there are thousands of us. And we have nothing better to do than take care of you."_

"_How come I can only hear a few?"_

"_We're the strongest. Besides, do you really want to hear thousands of spirits talking in your head? Along with all the insane ones that somehow managed to sneak in?"_

Ember remembered back to when several of the prominent spirits had been arguing, and she hadn't been able to tell what was going on. She grimaced. _"No."_ She finished her food and then looked at Zul'vii. The half-troll was fast asleep. _"Will you help me find my uncle?"_

"… _Eventually, yes."_

Ember's eyes narrowed. _"Eventually?"_

"_Give us a moment to explain ourselves. Your uncle is currently beyond your reach."_

"_I want my uncle!"_

"_We know, Ember. Please, believe us, we know. And we want to get you to him. We agree; he can help you."_ That pacified her slightly. _"Your uncle is not doing well. He is stronger than ever magically, but the magic is eating at him, consuming him." _She saw images in her mind. A wasted land of ash and taint. Black earth broken by unholy mountains, from which spewed green fire. The sky was a pasty orange color smeared with sickly olive clouds. Bright green and yellow lava dug canyons through the earth, and formed jagged obsidian spires where it splashed against rocks.

"_It's been two years since you've last seem him Ember. In those two years he's done many bad things." _The images moved across the earth. Slowly they came to rest at a giant structure. Braziers filled with green flame lead up to a great and ominous black doorway. Everywhere weapons and old corpses littered the ground. The building gave off a haunted, corrupt feeling.

"_There may still be hope for you and him, and we will do all we can reunite you. But this is his home. He's surrounded by monsters and demons on all sides. Some are of his own making, and some seek to kill him. All of them would happily destroy you. Some would do it to empower Archimonde, and others would do it to drain his power."_

She saw fel orcs and other monstrosities lumbering around the area. Then the visions went into the temple, past the demons and naga in Illidan's employment. At last it came to a final raised platform, a place from which one could look out over the whole of the valley.

"_Before we can get you to Illidan, we must equip you to deal with all of these things. But most importantly…"_

There she saw her uncle and guardian silhouetted against the disgusting sky. His wings were thicker and more gnarled than she remembered them, and his horns were completely regenerated. He must have sensed that he was being watched, for his stiffed, and then quickly turned "towards" her.

Two years had warped her beloved uncle. His face was drawn with malice, paranoia and near-insanity. His eyes flamed greener than ever beneath his bandana, and his lips were contorted in a snarl. His demonhunter tattoos had altered somewhat in shape and coloration. Rather than being a dark purple, they were vivid green, in keeping with the area's primary colors. He stood with the posture of a powerful but hunted animal, his claws grasping almost compulsively at the air.

"_Most of all, we must equip you to deal with him." _His brows narrowed, and he lifted a hand, claws splayed. His fingers contorted, slowly balling into a fist. Suddenly pain ripped through Ember's mind. She screamed, lifting her clawed hands to her temples and drawing blood as her sharp fingers dug into her skin. Zul'vii jerked awake and sat up quickly, staring at her.

"_Spy on me, will you?" _came a cruel, hissing voice. _"How _dare_ you intrude into my realm? How dare you stick your nose into the affairs of the Lord of the _ _Black_ _Temple__? I shall teach you pain like you have never known…"_

"_Illidan!" _she screamed, both out loud and with her mind. Blood was starting to ooze from her nose, and her brain felt like it was melting. The demon hunter's brows lifted in surprise and his hand opened. The horrid pain was gone immediately, leaving Ember staggered and swooning.

"_You are the only one who can help him," _murmured the ancestral spirits in unison.

"…_Ember…?"_ the demonhunter whispered, amazed and alarmed.

"_Uncle…"_ the little girl whispered, and then she outright fainted, her mind slipping through his grasp.

"_Ember!"_

* * *

The Exodar

Velen placed a hand to his bearded chin, and regarded the women before him. His blue eyes conveyed an expression of intense thought, and his mouth was set in an expressionless line. He, Nobundo, Tyrande, and Jaina were all seated in a meeting chamber. The high priestess was just finishing the telling of the Battle of Mount Hyjal.

Velen regarded Lady Proudmoore in particular. All three races, the night elves, the orcs, and the humans, had fought against Archimonde that day. They had stood united against the world's greatest foe, and they had succeeded. Azeroth owed that united front everything. Now that he knew the full extent of the tale, he could better understand why Jaina chose to throw in her lot with the orcs. It was not, as the officials in Stormwind would have liked him to believe, that Jaina was in some kind of conspiracy with them. Rather, she had taken the message of unity from that battle to heart.

Her persistence was somewhat admirable. She had thrown away the past for the sake of the future. Indeed, if he was interpreting her comments correctly, she had forged a _friendship_ with the orcish leader.

His gaze shifted to Nobundo, who stood at the sorceress's side. Velen had come to value the Far Seer's opinion on matters. Nobundo had suffered much in life, and yet held few prejudices. He had suffered much at the hands of the orcs, and yet his hatred towards them was mild, to say the least. Nobundo had taken up the same shamanistic path as the ancient orcs. Perhaps it helped him to relate to them.

In any event, the seer was hovering near to Jaina, and evidenced no signs of distrust. In fact, it seemed he wanted to speak to her about the orcs. Velen stroked through his beard thoughtfully. While _he_ had come to understand and accept Nobundo, he knew well that most other beings found the Far Seer disturbing. The sorceress's relaxed demeanor indicated she had no such sentiments. If anything, she seemed to find the Broken fascinating.

On one hand, her acceptance might have skewed Nobundo's perception of her. But on the other hand, the fact that she so readily associated herself with the Far Seer was an indication that she was genuinely friendly. It supported the idea that her bond to the orcs was a positive and mutually beneficial one.

"Archimonde's shattered armor now leans against the World Tree," Tyrande finished. "He and his undead legions were utterly defeated."

Velen nodded. "He is destroyed then. With luck, he shall remain that way for quite some time. We are fortunate; Archimonde has generally led all forays into the mortal worlds. His defeat is a great boon."

Jaina glanced at Tyrande. There seemed to be something on her mind. Velen blinked and regarded the two women. High Priestess Whisperwind seemed more withdrawn than normal. There was something they were not telling him.

"… What is it?" he inquired gently, his tone indicating that he was aware information was being concealed. Jaina looked to Velen and frowned lightly.

"There was a complication… But I think Tyrande would have to be the one to decide whether to tell you about it."

The night elf scoffed. While she had likely not intended to share this information in the beginning, she would certainly not withhold it. To do so would be absurd. "Why would I not?" she asked the sorceress. "The Prophet should know." She looked back to Velen, and her eyes were cold and steely. "A few years after Archimonde's death, I gave birth to twins. He corrupted one of the children in my womb, and possessed her."

Velen's eyes widened.

"That's what we think, anyway," Jaina continued. "The little girl was utterly flooded with demonic energy, and would throw exceptionally violent fits at the slightest provocation. One of our great heroes was Medivh, as I said. He was once possessed by Sargeras, in the same way as Ember. I had Medivh's mother, Aegwynn, look the little one over. At first, she said there was nothing within Ember but demonic taint, and that we should kill her. Then, when Ember threw a fit, she changed her mind. She said that, impossible as it may sound, Ember seemed to be fighting against the demonic influence. Aegwynn said that Ember's rages were actually her response to Archimonde's manipulations. She'd slide into an instinctive temper tantrum in order to block him out."

Tyrande swallowed, just looking at the little sorceress. Velen stood up. "Why did you not tell me about this immediately?" he asked in astonishment.

"Actually," continued Jaina, "Aegwynn suggested bringing Ember to the Draenei." She looked curiously at Tyrande. "What happened?" Velen looked at Tyrande equally questioningly

The High Priestess closed her eyes and breathed in slowly. Then she opened her eyes again. "Ember fled. Furion initially tried to help her, while the Draenei were still getting settled, and were not yet fully part of the Alliance. But a few months after she'd been returned to us, Ember fled. She has been gone for over two years."

"You are saying that a child possessed by Archimonde the Deceiver is somewhere out there? Perhaps plotting against us all?"

Tyrande's eyes narrowed. "Do you know the name Curiato?" The draenei leader blinked and hesitated. "Surely, if your people serve a force as respectable as the Light, you must have heard of them…"

"… Yes, I have… My people still preserve the legends of the nine angels. Curiato… that name is given to the angel of healing…"

"Curiato is on Azeroth. She's manifested in the form of a young half troll. And she's with Ember now. I trust the angel to do what is right."

This helped Velen settle down. "If Curiato is here… then…?"

"MahiMahi is here as well," Tyrande confirmed. "She hasn't been sighted in awhile, but her presence has been felt. The angel Truae is also present, although she has gone missing entirely."

Velen frowned. "So the first three are all present, and yet none of them are locatable? This is not a good omen…"

"In theory, we could locate Curiato. My husband is, even now, searching for her and Ember."

"That explains Furion's absence… Still, if this child can be found, I would like to examine her. Perhaps there is something we can do for her. I knew Archimonde once, you see, long before the Burning Legion claimed him." Tyrande and Jaina both blinked. "This… Aegwynn was right to suggest Ember be brought to me. If anyone can purge his taint, I might be able to."

Tyrande regarded him quietly. She thought back to Ember's insistence on being reunited with Illidan. Tyrande had been so certain, as if Elune herself had ordained it. She had ignored Ember's absence for two years, she had been so certain. But now, at Velen's blunt words, she began to doubt.

Had she been wrong? Was Ember going to her doom? Was Tyrande's own judgment blinded by the lingering trust she had for Malfurion's twin? Quite suddenly, the high priestess was not so certain that she had made the right choice in not setting out to find Ember immediately.

"…Jaina…" Tyrande said slowly. The sorceress blinked and looked up at her. "Can you teleport from here to the Dark Portal?"

The sorceress was taken aback by the request. "The Dark Portal? Well, yes… But why would I do that?"

"Furion should be there," Tyrande continued, sounding tired. "Perhaps he has more information on her whereabouts."

"Why - " Jaina paused and then turned quickly towards the priestess. "Illidan. Ember's trying to get to Illidan. Which means she'd have to go through the portal."

"Yes," Tyrande said softly.

"Illidan?" questioned Velen. "Illidan Stormrage, self-proclaimed ruler of Outland? The half demon?"

"Hey," said Jaina defensively, seeing a need to back Tyrande up. "Illidan is Ember's uncle, and they sort of suffer from similar problems."

"That he _is_ a demon, and she is possessed by one?" the draenei leader asked incredulously.

"Illidan fights against Kil'jaeden. He would be the last person in the entire world to help Archimonde," Jaina answered. This seemed to appease Velen slightly. "He's also the one who brought Ember to me, to ask me if there was any way to purge Archimonde from her."

Tyrande looked up at Velen and spoke. "I haven't pursued Ember, because Illidan is the only one who has ever managed to help her. Her entire demeanor changed after her short time with him. She could speak in complete sentences and control her fury. When she raged, she tried not to hurt the people around her. And I believe that he can help her, now. But your words make me doubt. Perhaps it would be best if Ember was retrieved and brought back to you."

The draenei leader sighed and nodded. "I… understand the reasons for your actions. Still, I wish I had known of this before the little girl had time to depart. This whole mess might have been avoided."

"I'll go to the Dark Portal this very minute, and inquire after the Archdruid," Jaina announced. "If Ember has gotten through the portal, he'll know."

"And if she has?" asked Tyrande.

"Then there are only so many places in Outland that she could be. Presuming she hasn't yet made it to Illidan, we can track her down." Tyrande nodded, and Jaina stood back in order to cast her spell.

* * *

Inside C'Thun, Ahn'Qiraj, Silithus

Nathanos landed with a thud in a lake of exceptionally corrosive acid. He snarled and stood up quickly. Thick muscles pumped around him, jostling him around and splashing more acid on him. Scattered here and there, however, were bubbles of stomach flesh that rose above the acid. The ranger quickly clambered out of the green liquid and onto one of the bubbles. His skin was starting to become raw and blistery where he'd touched the acid, so he started shaking himself to get the bulk of it off, glancing around quickly.

Several other unfortunate individuals had landed in the stomach before him. A few seemed to have tried to climb up the sides of the stomach, and had dissolved away. Two survivors were on a different organ mass. They were currently engaged in fighting off a giant spiked tentacle that was protruding from the side of the stomach. Nathanos observed this idly, before a deep, low moan caught his attention. Nathanos blinked and looked around. Nestled at one side of the stomach was Ouro. Great fleshy appendages were wrapped around the worm, and slowly prying at its carapace. It was partially submerged in the acid, and looked to be in a great deal of pain. The ranger's eyes narrowed.

His plans were disrupted by a giant tentacle emerging from the acid between him and his worm. It hovered there for a moment spikes rippling down its sides, and then it launched forward, stabbing down at him. Nathanos smacked the tip aside with his axe. It pulled back and prepared itself to strike again.

The ranger eyed the tentacle. It was roughly halfway between himself and Ouro. He grinned, and waited for the spiked tip to descend.

It did, arcing downward. He slammed both his axes down onto it, forcing its tip into the organ mass beneath him. As the tip sank deep into the organ wall, Nathanos nimbly hopped on top of it, and dug his axe into its side. The spiked tentacle jerked backwards, ripping its tip from the organ mass. Nathanos gave a solid slice to the front of it, and it recoiled even further, to the point where it was practically leaning over Ouro. The Ranger dug his boots hard into the tentacle, and then jumped from its side. He landed gracefully on Ouro's carapace-covered hide, and began running for the sandworm's head.

The tip swiveled around to stab at him, but he knocked it easily away. He ducked under a few grasping appendages, and then quickly swung himself down to hang beside the worm's head. He belted an axe, and reached forward to gently stroke the creature's antenna.

It moaned.

"Listen. You need to thrash back and forward. Thrash like there's no tomorrow. I know you're hurt, but you have to get out of here or you're going to end up as lunch." He dug his fingers into the antenna. The worm cringed and then began growling and fighting against its bonds. "Good Ouro," he said fondly. A tentacle stabbed at him, so he quickly hauled himself back up onto the carapace. He pulled out his belted axe, and gave both weapons a show-off-y pinwheel twirl. "Shouldn't eat rotting food," he cautioned belatedly to the unhearing Old God. And then he went to work, hacking at the tentacles that held Ouro in place.

* * *

Andorhal

Andorhal was in a state of constant activity. The undead went about their business as a collective mind, using all of their strengths to push ahead with what needed to be done. There were times when they faltered, times when they paused and lamented what had happened, but as a whole they moved forward, struggling to complete the tasks with which they had been charged.

You see, when Ketala vanished into the depths of Naxxramas, the inhabitants of Andorhal lost the majority of their connection with her. The Lich King's power cut her off from them. But when Ketala vanished, she left behind a set of orders. She wanted a cathedral to be built over Uther's tomb. She wanted Andorhal to rebuild and defend itself. She wanted the undead to stay together and to protect one another. And so Andorhal clung to her orders, using them as a last lifeline between themselves and their beloved mistress. Those who had been soldiers in life continued their training, forcing old memories about combat to come to the surface. They had found or made armor and weapons for themselves, and lined the walls around Andorhal, keeping steady vigilance. The abominations assisted with construction, or patrolled Andorhal's streets.

Even the liches were bound by a desire to please their missing savior. Their magic strengthened the city against assault, and warded off anything that attempted to hurt its people. Most of all, they worked on Ketala's cathedral, carefully skirting around holy areas so that they did not damage themselves in the process.

Lodan, Ketala's ex-death knight, worked to keep peace with Stormwind, Ironforge, and the Undercity. He oversaw the building of the cathedral, and ensured that living persons worked on areas too sacred for the undead to touch. Even Ketala's favorite ghoul, Lachdan, had found a place in training the other undead warriors in the city.

There was only one being who was not able to cope with Ketala's absence. Euquin was a very rare mixture- half human and half night elf. No one had the foggiest idea where she had come from. She was also undead. Until recently, Euquin had been a form of Abomination, with meat-hook like claws projecting from every inch of her body. Her brain had been scrambled beyond recognition, and she had relied entirely on Ketala for mental stability.

Euquin had been healed, for what it was worth… But her dependency on Ketala had never truly waned. Now, with the undead paladin missing, Euquin was a complete mess. She would attempt to commit suicide every day or so, and would fail miserably each and every time. In the end, she'd pick her broken frame back up and drag herself back to Andorhal's inn. She drank profusely, but couldn't get drunk. She'd throw fits and throw herself around like a creature possessed. She'd curl up in a corner and cry, or babble incoherently to herself for hours.

This made everything worse for Varimathras, whom she was supposed to feed. The old dreadlord had been through quite a lot recently. He'd betrayed Sylvanas to Ner'zhul, and had gotten her ensnared by the Lich King. Nathanos and the Apothecaries had nearly tortured him to death. They'd seen fit to remove his hooves, fingers, horns, fangs, and wings. Then he'd been rescued by, of all creatures, Ketala. Until recently, the ex-majordomo had been watched over by Euquin, who had acted as a sort of nursemaid. She had tended to his wounds and fed him. And now because of Euquin's delirium, he was not being fed.

Varimathras sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the night elf vomit (For the nether only knew what reason) out a nearby window. She had tried her best to take care of him. When Ketala had disappeared, Euquin had gone out to Caer Darrow, where Varimathras and a handful of Ketala's undead servants were, and had herded them all back to Andorhal. But after that she seemed to lack any directive, or any motivation to help him.

The dreadlord rubbed his temples with the palms of his hand, and then blinked. He eyed Euquin uncertainly, and mused. Euquin lacked mental stability. Varimathras was not very skilled in telepathy… but all of Andorhal's undead seemed to have developed a primitive psychic bond after contact with Ketala. Perhaps Euquin did as well. He reached forward tentatively with his mind, trying to touch her own.

He was mentally hug-tackled. Euquin picked herself up and whirled around to stare at him, blinking curiously. He had to consciously resist the effort to hurl her mind from his; what mortals might have found cute and puppy-like, Varimathras found repulsive and disturbing.

"_Euquin?"_ he asked as gently as he could. He needn't have been so careful. She took the bait, hook, line, and sinker. She was immediately at his side, her full attention focused on him. He smiled wryly. _"Lost, are you?"_

"_Help?"_ she inquired. _"Stay with? Help?"_ He mused a moment, and watched as she squirmed anxiously where she stood.

"_All right," _he agreed after a moment. _"But in return, you must do some things for me."_

She almost exploded with excitement. _"What is? What I do?"_

Varimathras smirked. _"You must serve me and do as I say- everything I say- to the best of your abilities."_

"_I do! I do! Please, please no leave!"_

He smiled and reached out a hand to pat the pathetic female on the head. His mind was connected to hers, so he could not outright lie. Still, Varimathras had learned how to concentrate on and enhance many of his own regressed emotions; Sylvanas had been telepathic, and controlling his feelings (or emulating ones he lacked) had worked wonders for currying her favor. Now he projected a front of concerned fondness towards the undead night elf. _"I won't, Euquin. Don't worry. I won't."_

Euquin oozed joy.

"_Now… I need food. You remember what I eat, don't you?" _

She pondered hard and then nodded.

"_Good. Go and find me some fresh blood."_

"_Okay!" _she answered cheerfully, delighted to once again have orders. She bounded off excitedly, and Varimathras leaned back against his bed's headrest in content. Such a pathetic creature… And yet, she would prove to be useful… He mused to himself, rubbing his chin with the side of his hand. As of now, he only needed basic necessities to be taken care of. But, once those were finished with, perhaps he could use Euquin for more complex tasks. He carefully shuffled his plans around, and was pleased with how well the undead night elf fit in to his schemes. Now if only he could keep his temper with her.

He grimaced and regarded his damaged limbs. His temper had been getting the best of him lately. When Nathanos and Ketala had descended into Scholomance, his temper had kept him from warning them about Kel'Thuzad's presence. As much as Varimathras might have hated both Ketala and Nathanos, both were vital in the fight against the Lich King.

And the Lich King himself…

The Lich King had used Varimathras as an easily expendable pawn. Sylvanas had tortured the dreadlord for neglect in his duties; Ner'zhul had seized upon that. He had lured Varimathras into his employment with promises that the dreadlord would be able to exact his vengeance on the banshee queen.

Varimathras had seized the opportunity. He had betrayed Sylvanas, and disrupted her attempts to thwart the Lich King on Theramore. He'd delivered the Dark Lady directly into Ner'zhul's hands - and he'd almost delivered the rest of the Lich King's enemies right along with her. He had done his job admirably. Ner'zhul had held up his side of the bargain…

**The Lich King's cold, cyan, warped eyes settled on the demon, and Frostmourne twitched. The soul of a banshee screamed its way out from the depths of the blade and was hurled across the room towards the demon. The ghostly remains of the elfish woman skidded and rolled on the ground, and finally ended up a moaning, screaming, cursing mass at Varimathras's hoofed feet.**

Varimathras had taken his vengeance… It had hardly been worth it. Certainly, he had been able to torture Sylvanas for a few hours. It had given him great satisfaction. But after that? The Lich King had forged a plan to get Azeroth's warriors to leave Northrend. He'd given the resistance fighters a good many gifts to keep them placated. One of these gifts had been Varimathras.

To be honest, the dreadlord had known that it was likely the Lich King would betray him. Ner'zhul and Arthas both utterly hated demons, and generally worked with them only as long as necessary. Still, he'd been cast aside as little more then a parting gift to help along a begrudging retreat. The moment he was in the clutches of the Forsaken, they had gagged him and brought him back to the Undercity to be ripped apart. Nathanos ensured that he never even had an opportunity to weasel his way out of punishment, and with Sylvanas absent, there was no one who truly appreciated the dreadlord's worth. And then Ketala, of all people, had the audacity to save him. She'd spared him only after he had agreed to help restore Sylvanas and defeat Arthas.

Ketala was currently absent. Varimathras felt no obligation to meet her demands. But on the other hand… He had no allies. No country. No one to save him should he be rediscovered by the Lich King or by the Forsaken. He was completely and entirely alone. And on that fateful day that either the Scourge or the Free Races won control of Lordaeron, Varimathras's fate would be sealed. And either way, he would die. It was unlikely he could make any other allies. Ketala had saved his life, but she'd also made him pledge to reinstate Sylvanas, and accept any punishment the banshee queen decided to inflict on him. No human or orc would take him in. The Forsaken wanted him dead. The blood elves would just happily drain him of all his power. The draenei would kill him with nary a thought. Furthermore, his demonic brethren would rip apart the very fabric of his soul if they were ever able to get their hands on him. He was completely alone.

Perhaps he should not have been so quick to betray his only benefactor. He would have to be careful not to let his temper get the best of him in the future.

* * *

Ahn'Qiraj Temple, Silithus

Ouro screamed, ripping free of the fleshy tentacles that bound it. It hauled itself bodily out of the acid, and quickly bolted for one of the large organic "land masses" within C'Thun's belly. The worm's chitin was cracked and burnt, but the creature was very much still alive. A spiked tentacle thrust up from the bowels of the stomach in order to impede the giant worm, but Ouro crashed through it and ripped it from its moorings. Nathanos grinned devilishly, slicing through anything that dared move near his pet.

The insides of the stomach gave a terrific shudder. The muscles contracted, and the level of acid began to rise. The other party members that were trapped within began to shout and scramble for higher ground.

Nathanos blinked and looked around. He lifted a brow, and then quickly wedged himself under Ouro's damaged carapace. He acted not a moment too quickly.

Outside of C'Thun's stomach, things were not going so well. Although the raiding party had the resources necessary to keep its fighters alive against C'Thun, every individual present knew full well that the Old God was taking no damage whatsoever. His protective shield withered even the most powerful spells into little more than puffs of air, and weapons glanced off of him as if they were no more than small twigs. It wasn't exactly a moral boost that the Old God was eating people at random, or that two of his first victims had been a titanic worm and the group's de-facto leader.

Ras was desperately trying to hold the group together, but he was starting to succumb to the ill morale himself. He simply could not come up with some means by which the group might harm the colossal monstrosity they fought against. C'Thun's constant murmurs of _"You will betray your friends,"_ and, _"You will die,"_ weren't particularly helping the situation. In fact, the ex-lich was just about to order a retreat when something interesting happened.

C'Thun suddenly turned a very disturbing color. His eyes rolled and his tentacles shuddered. C'Thun was an ancient mollusk-shaped god of phenomenal power and unspeakable origins… but it almost appeared that the giant monster was… ill…

C'Thun quivered for a moment, then lurched to the side and… vomited. The contents of the Old God's stomach went spewing across the ground; a gout of acid followed by several confused and bewildered party members. The Old God shuddered and contracted again. This time, a gigantic red sand worm tumbled out of the monster's gigantic maw. It cartwheeled a good hundred yards away and then fell into a sprawling, stinking mess.

The regurgitated Ouro lifted its head and looked around. Nathanos grunted and pulled himself out from under the worm's carapace. He glanced at C'Thun and then looked around at his surprised raiding party. "Well what the nether are you just standing there for?" he snarled. "His shield's down! Attack! NOW!"

The party members looked to one another. They all gave mental shrugs, and then whirled on the wretched C'Thun, screaming battle cries at the top of their lungs.

Flower ambled over to Ras. After he'd gotten bored with kicking at the Eye of C'Thun, the old coot had gotten bored, and had wandered around looking for any of Piggie's remains. He'd only managed to find a few of Piggie's beautiful pink feathers, and so he'd tucked them into his skull hat. Flower's beard and hair were still standing on end with static electricity. After taking stock of his own condition, Flower did the only logical thing to do; he poked Ras.

The mage yelped as he received a static shock from the necromancer's electrically charged person. He eyed Flower crossly and the necromancer giggled. "With all due respect," Flower responded blithely, "you should have seen that coming."

Ras eyed the insane necromancer for a moment and lifted a brow. The flamingo feathers tucked into his cow skull made it look less like a necromantic emblem and more like an exotic headdress. The ex-lich snorted and sent another fireball C'Thun's way. Something was causing him a lingering unease, but there wasn't any point in dwelling on it at the moment. After all, there was still a very large and angry (and nauseous) Old God thrashing around with murderous intent. Also, Nathanos was yelling complicated orders and ranting about slackers. Ras had more to worry about than the ridiculous necromancer's practical jokes.

It wouldn't occur to him until several days later that neither mages nor necromancers employed spells that utilized electricity.

* * *

Thrallmar, Outland

Zul'vii did not feel safe in Outland. From the moment she first arrived, she felt that demonic eyes were watching her and Ember- or at least searching for her.

The Dark Portal had emptied out into the Hellfire Peninsula, a vast red land of blood and battle. The ground was composed mostly of dust layered over an endless sea of brittle bones. Green smoked oozed up from mountains in the distance, where warlock's practiced their gruesome magic. An occasional wind carried the chants of marauding felorcs to the half-trolls ears, and every fiber of the land was suffused with the scent of demonic taint.

Needless to say, Zul'vii decided that it would be best to keep moving.

Right after they had entered Draenor for the first time, and Ember had been knocked unconscious, Zul'vii had secured a Wyvern to carry them past demonic lines, to the orcish base of Thrallmar. There she had secured a room at an inn. Ember had gotten up before her, and the girl's screaming had jerked Zul'vii awake. Once more, the child was knocked unconscious by whatever mental strain she was going through.

Whatever had caused Ember such pain might still be looking for her, adding another incentive to keep moving. Quite apart from those concerns was the simple fact that Zul'vii was only half-troll, and Ember was clearly of night elf blood. In Horde territory, this could land them in a very awkward position. With the added consideration that orcish warriors were known to be a tad axe-happy on the front lines, she knew it was probably best that they not overstay their welcome.

The half troll spread out a map before her. It was crudely drawn (those same orcish warriors would never be praised for their artistic abilities), but it accurately designated the general layout of Outland. She ran her fingers over it, carefully examining the names of many locations of interest.

Personally, Zul'vii believed that rushing into any problem headlong and without any information was stupid. She'd spent two years getting Ember safely to Draenor, and she'd spend two _decades_ if necessary to ensure that the little girl remained safe in Outland. The half troll glanced over at Ember and frowned. The night elf child was breathing shallowly and seemed to be having a nightmare. None of this was a particularly good omen.

Zul'vii looked back down to the map and examined all of Outland. There was the Hellfire Peninsula, the Zangarmarsh, Terrokkar Forest, Nagrand, the Blade's Edge Mountains, Netherstorm… And last but not least, Shadowmoon Valley. If Zul'vii was correct, Illidan had taken up residence in the dreaded Black Temple.

Any place that had earned the adjective "dreaded" deserved to be treated with respect. The half troll stroked her chin and tusks thoughtfully. After a moment, she placed a finger on Thrallmar. If she'd wanted to head straight for Shadowmoon Valley, her path would be difficult but feasible. She'd have to head south, skirt around the Hellfire Citadel (definitely not a place Ember and Zul'vii wanted to go), pass by the Alliance bastion of Honor Hold (another place they didn't want to go), and head south through Razorthorn Trail to Terrokar Forest. From there she'd have to head east to Shadowmoon Valley.

Still, Zul'vii wasn't certain if she wanted to head there yet. What if she went down into Terrokar Forest and headed west instead? Then she'd come upon the city of Shattrath. It was a neutral town, but supposedly was filled with paladins and other worshipers of the Light. Would it be dangerous to take Ember there? Would they sense the demon in her and attempt to kill her?

Decisions, decisions…

Ember stirred. She grunted and lifted her head, looking around curiously at her surroundings. Zul'vii blinked and looked over at the little girl. "Heya. You feeling alright?" The night elf girl blinked and turned her gaze towards Zul'vii.

"I want to go to Nagrand," she announced suddenly. Zul'vii blinked.

"Well this is a new development. What happened to heading straight for Illidan?"

"That's too dangerous. I want to go to Nagrand first, to learn how to get to him the right way."

"… Okay… Who are you, and what have you done with Ember? You're not Archimonde are you?"

Ember's eyes flamed. "No!" she insisted. "I'm Ember! Not Archimonde! Never!"

Zul'vii laughed and scooted up to the little girl. She took Ember's face in her hands, and looked into the little girl's eyes. No demon glared back at her. Zul'vii nodded and released her face. "So why is Ember suddenly so concerned about safety?"

The little girl frowned and touched her temple. "…When I came through the portal, Archimonde tried to kill me."

Zul'vii nodded. "That I figured out."

"But there was something else. Archimonde was not the only one fighting for my body. There was something else." She looked down at her claws. "Nature was fighting, too. It called spirits from Nagrand to fight against Archimonde. The spirits say they want to help me, and they want me to go to Nagrand."

"No offense, but you generally don't trust the people in your head. Why listen to these spirits?"

"… I think they're right."

"Why?"

"… They showed me my uncle. I think he might be sick. The spirits seem to think he needs me like I need him. I want to help him."

Zul'vii sat back and contemplated the young girl. Ember's speech patterns had changed somewhat. For all the time Zul'vii had known Ember, the little girl's vocal expression had been limited to one-sentence exclamations. Yet now, her thoughts were structured, and she seemed willing to speak at length about a topic. These two traits were completely new to Zul'vii. It was as if the child had suddenly gained authority over a new part of her mind.

The half-troll nodded after a moment. "Alright. I see you've thought this through, and your reasoning seems sound. To Nagrand, then."

Ember nodded and scraped her clawed fingers over one another. Zul'vii smiled and pulled the map up between herself and the little girl. "This is where we are," Zul'vii said, and she placed a finger upon the town of Thrallmar. "This is the Zangarmarsh, which we shall have to trek through," she continued as she ran her finger through that location. "And this is Nagrand, where we have to go." Her finger stopped. "It's a long way. We should probably find a mount of some kind."

Ember perked up immediately. "A pet?" she questioned. Zul'vii laughed and nodded.

"Yes. Hopefully something with lots of fangs and spikes, right?"

"Yes! Something that can roar and fly and chop things up and everything's afraid of it, but not me!"

Zul'vii grinned and hoisted up the girl.

"That's right, 'cause Ember's not afraid of anything!"

"Nothing! Rrrawwrrr!!" she snarled playfully, clawing at the air.

Zul'vii laughed, and hugged the little girl. For one of the first times, Ember hugged back.

* * *

Ahn'Qiraj Temple, Silithus

A team of warriors, mages, and rogues hacked at C'Thun's insides in a unified, carefully orchestrated team. Behind them, druids warded them against acid, and healed the fighters of whatever they endured. Occasionally one was struck off into the acid, or smashed against a wall and severely wounded or even killed. But as a whole, they fought on. The raiding party on C'Thun's outside waited patiently, carefully ripping apart the Old God's endless tentacles.

And then it happened. C'Thun began to twitch awkwardly, and turn an unhealthy shade of green. His shield flickered.

As one, the raiding party poured down upon him, clawing up his sides and hacking at his tentacles and eyes. Spells exploded into his thick hide. Flower watched quietly as Ras sent forward orb after orb of ice. The necromancer had finally managed to get his beard to lie flat, and now he was bored. He watched the orbs for a moment and became mesmerized by the casting, to the point where he was starting to drool.

Ras sighed. "Necromancer!" Flower jumped and blinked curiously at the ex-lich. "Necromancer, can you please-"

"My name is not 'Necromancer', young man!"

"I know, but will you please attack-"

"It's Flower!"

Ras outright stared at him for a moment. Then he shook his head and fired off another orb of ice. C'Thun was now hurling out their party members. Lovely sight. "Flower, then!"

"Flower then what?"

He took in a slow breath to keep himself from strangling the poor necromancer. "Flower, will you please show us how absolutely brilliant you are by attacking our enemy with some type of powerful spell?"

"Mmm. I don't want to."

"Flower!"

"Stop yelling at me!" he wailed, and pulled his cow skull over his head. "I have very sensitive feelings!"

"Well if you'd just attack him, I wouldn't have to yell at you!"

"Ah! So it's bribery? Well, I see how things are here!" He waved his arms in the air, although he was currently blind with the skull over his head. "And you know what! I won't stand for it! I'll have the law on you! You just wait! You'll be indicted, and then you'll be sorry!"

Ras tried to think of anything that would get Flower's attention back to the subject at hand. "But we'll just bribe the judge," he observed.

Flower blinked. "Oh. I hadn't thought of that. Guess I'll skip town then. Bye!" And with that he headed off.

Ras stared after him in utter bewilderment, mostly because the necromancer was heading straight for C'Thun. He was blind with the cow skull helmet in front of his face, after all. He started whistling a merry tune. Around halfway there, he tripped on a body and fell flat on his face. His enchanted staff misfired, sending a lightning bolt straight into C'Thun's bulk.

"_Fools," _came the voice. The shield was building up again, solidifying against frost, fire, melee weapons… _"You will never bind me again. I am eternal."_ And then the bolt of lightning ripped through him, tearing a hole from one side of his body to the other- a final strike in a long, long list of blows. Every one of C'Thun's eyes swiveled to Flower. The Necromancer propped himself up and lifted the skull off of his face, looking around in confusion. He looked up at C'Thun and blinked innocently as the Old God's eyes began to glow red. His shield faltered, but energy coursed around him, burning any that drew near to try and attack him. The energy coagulated, forming into a ball that would hurl forward and wipe from existence the mortal that had _dared_ to attack him.

Whereupon Ouro crashed into him and smashed him brutally into the ground. There was a disgusting squishing sound, and the Old God lost control of the energy he wielded. It fell back upon him, ripping apart his insides and causing black ichor to bubble up from his stomach. His eyes rolled and he screamed, his tentacles flailing madly. And then, all at once, it was over. He gave a final, disturbing gurgle, and then his eyes rolled to uncomfortable positions, and his tentacles drooped.

So ended the manifestation of C'Thun, Old God of time before time; slain by a Lord and a Fool.

* * *

"_The jester was a symbolic twin of the king. All jesters and fools in those days were thought of as special cases whom God had touched with a childlike madness—a gift, or perhaps a curse."_

Also, I did some research. It turns out that the reason The Burning Crusade is a little Hero-Kill-Happy is because the Lead World Designer was hired for two reasons: A) He was friends with the former Lead World Designer, and B) He led one of the top raiding guilds on Everquest. EVERQUEST! GAHHH! It burns! IT BURNS! They kill GODS in Everquest! Illidan! NOO!

I am now done ranting.


	11. A Change of Path

Yarg!

Hey guys, finals are comming up! I give you this chapter, which I have written while I was supposed to be writing a huge paper! Everyone's talking about how long it is and that they need to set aside so much time to do it. It's one thousand words. They do not know the massively writing fury that is Kyn! BWAHAHA!

This chapter heralds the return of someone you might have been missing! Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_**A Change of Path**_

* * *

The Undercity

Euquin moved quietly through the city, taking in the rancid smell of sewage and death. The Undercity unfolded around her, endless sewage tunnels sprawling off into many strange directions. Forsaken scurried to and fro, going about their day to day business. Purchases were being made, weapons forged, and magical spells practiced.

The undead half-elf tugged on her hood to ensure that it was covering her face. She could feel Varimathras's mind overshadowing hers, directing her carefully through the undead rabble. She sniffed the air, drawing in the putrid scent of her surroundings, and then hurried forward. There were many places to check, many locals to visit.

From above, high in the ceiling architecture of the Undercity, something watched her curiously. It could sense the telepathic bond she shared, and it found the connection... familiar, somehow.

Euquin visited the Apothecarium and the old Royal Chamber, trying to ignore the painful memories that surfaced as she did so. Varimathras shielded her from them, dimming them down and keeping her from panicking. She trusted him to protect her and guide her, just as he had done for the past two years. Occasionally, something curious caught her eyes, and she could not help but to go over and investigate.

Varimathras sighed from where he was waiting outside of the Undercity. Euquin's, "Ooh, shiny!" mentality was one facet of her personality that he was still unable to control. He waited for her to get over the initial novelty of her distraction, and then gently reminded her of her mission. She was only too eager to jump back to the task at hand.

Euquin wrung her volgue and sighed, feeling wretched for her short attention span. The weapon in her fingers glimmered slightly, green runes illuminating in a sickly fashion all along its shaft. She sighed, calming as she felt the potent magic of the demonic weapon rushing around her. Any ordinary being would have cringed at the evil emanations, but Euquin had long associated them with her demon benefactor. The few undead that cared to notice the girl's volgue merely assumed she dabbled as a warlock, and gave her a slightly wider berth.

She felt Varimathras gently nudging her forward, and she nodded, sending him a mental apology. When she did not find the thing she sought in the main bulk of the Undercity, she began investigating more remote regions. Tunnels, side passages, routes up to the broken city… Now and then Varimathras pointed out a sewage pipe she missed, and she went to investigate.

Her goal was here, somewhere. She just had to find it. Varimathras would be pleased, and she would have _earned_ his aid…

Her unseen observer followed.

* * *

The Temple of Ahn'Qiraj

Nathanos eyed the fallen Old God for a moment from his perch on Ouro. He gave a satisfied nod, and then looked around at the many individuals within the area. "Okay, war's over. Time to go home now." He gave Ouro a nudge and the worm started heading for the exit.

He paid no heed as his party members stared after him, mouths agape. Such was the wonderfully anticlimactic exit of Nathanos Blightcaller from the Temple of Ahn'Qiraj, in a way so un-storybook that only he could have managed it. He did not even bother to address the three dragons who had bound themselves to the temple in order to keep C'Thun repressed. Nor did he participate in the after battle huzzah. There was no fanfare, no herald leading the way before him. He was much happier that way.

"Nathanos?"

The Ranger Lord glanced down at where Ras was standing. The mage continued, a little nervously. "You do realize that if you take Ouro out of here, he's just going to be attacked by the Horde and Alliance waiting past the Scarab Wall. He's sort of notorious."

"She."

Ras blinked. "What?"

"Ouro is female."

Ras stared at him a moment, but shook his surprise off quickly; it wasn't exactly the most unusual revelation of the day. "The Necromancer's name is Flower," he quipped back. Nathanos lifted a brow, and nodded, silently acknowledging that Ras's information was by far stranger.

"If I leave Ouro here, she'll be killed by looters looking to salvage her hide. She's too injured to defend herself long."

"Actually, I was suggesting we burrow under the city walls. With the gate open, the magic that made the walls impervious is gone. We can slip out past the war camps without encountering a soul."

Nathanos blinked, and eyed the ex-lich. He smirked lightly, proud of the mage's ingenuity. "That should work," he agreed. "Although, I'm not certain where I should release her. It would be near impossible to transport her across the ocean. And while I'd love to disrupt the lives of thousands of people by setting her free in a densely populated area, she'd probably get herself killed."

_At least he's concerned for the life of _some_thing_, Ras observed to himself dryly. "Are you feeling alright?" the lich asked aloud. Nathanos blinked.

"What?"

"Well," Ras said slowly, "you have been acting rather strange over the past few days."

The ranger looked down at him again, an amused smile on his face. "Strange? Really? My goodness, whatever shall we do? Nathanos acting anticlimactic, sarcastic, and homicidal! It's just so unnatural!"

Ras shook his head. "No, that's just it. I meant strange for you- not strange for a normal, mentally and emotionally stable adult."

Nathanos was mildly surprised by the mage's boldness. Ras had quietly followed the ranger's lead ever since they'd arrived in Silithus. Perhaps the fighting had caused him to shed some of his docile melancholy? "Why Ras, I'm hurt. And here I went that whole trip without killing any paladins."

"You haven't killed a single member of our party. You just used a pouting voice to say you were hurt. You were laughing while taming Ouro. You let the leaders of the Ahn'Qiraj, the Twin Emperors, survive because they had offended your taste in architecture. And now you are using Skeram's head like a puppet to mock my nagging."

Nathanos stiffened and eyed the disembodied head he was using for just that purpose. "I stand corrected," he decided after a moment of thought. And then he shrugged and tossed the head to Ouro for the worm to snack on. "And, after thinking about it, I couldn't care less."

"Why the change?"

The ranger snorted. "I could go back to my old habits and eviscerate you…"

Ras shook his head and held out his hands in a gesture for peace. "I was just curious about the _reason_ you've been acting in such a manner."

"It isn't your business," the Ranger Lord enunciated acidly. "And you are rapidly wearing away at my perverse goodwill."

The ex-lich hesitated, uncertain as to whether he should press the issue or drop it. At last, he sighed. "The Plaguelands, then?"

"The Plaguelands," Nathanos agreed.

Ras blinked and looked up at the Ranger. "You've been acting… happy… ever since you decided you were going to return to Naxxramas."

"To the land of gloomy dead people. Ah… Home, sweet home."

"And to Ketala."

Nathanos did not respond for almost an entire minute. When he did, his voice was patronizing. "Ras Frostwhisper, you were a lich. You are a mage. You must therefore be an intelligent man. So I am left wondering how it is that you manage to understand me so very poorly. It is as if you do not even know me."

Ras lifted a brow.

Nathanos continued conversationally, "Because if you did, surely you would realize that I hate, more than anything else in the world, being labeled. I hate my actions being diagnosed. I hate being predictable. I hate clichés. I hate love. I hate when everything turns out alright. And most of all, I hate Ketala. And if you continue to try and dissect and understand me, and forcibly lay out all these things for me to deal with, I am going to deal with them as I deal with everything else- and hate them. I am going to choose to do the exact opposite of what everyone needs me to do.

"And if you were an intelligent man," the Ranger Lord rationalized, "you would realize this. If you want me to save Ketala, then shut up, and stop talking to me about it." And as Nathanos finished, he eyed Ras as if the ex-lich were daft.

Ras eyed the ranger strangely, a little thrown off by the man's words. The mage had, of course, realized all of these things about Nathanos quite some time ago. But it came as a surprise to find that the ranger was now equally aware of them. At first, Nathanos's words seemed childish and immature… But if they indicated that the ranger was recognizing his internal issue and trying to deal with them, then the Ranger Lord was actually acting with surprising maturity. After a moment of thinking about it, a question occurred to the ex-lich. "You say you hate her?" he asked curiously.

"More than anything else in the world," Nathanos affirmed.

"Why…?" He might have been hoping to catch Nathanos off guard with the question, but the Ranger Lord had a wonderfully anti-climate response.

"Because she's like any other paladin. Blind and self-righteous. Judging, enforcing her moral opinions, changing the world so it models her vision of perfection. And she's so very condescending." Nathanos eyed Ras, who looked bewildered. The ranger's words had taken Ketala and degraded her from an icon into an average, flawed mortal, just as clueless about the nature of good and evil as anyone else. "You were expecting something more emotional?" he asked after a moment. "Like "Because she loves me?" or "Because it's how I deal with the fact that I love her?"

"Why _do_ you love her?"

_That_ question caught Nathanos off guard. He blinked, and tilted his head to the side.

He couldn't rightly say because he was attracted to her- he was undead after all. He couldn't say that it was due to growing used to her presence because he'd been away from her for years, and such sentiments would have worn off within that time. He remained staring at Ras for a long moment, and then looked back to the path they were traversing, his mind searching rapidly for some explanation. The question had utterly stumped him.

Now that he thought about it, there were thousands of reasons, all sort of working together, condensing into a more solid, defined emotion. The only encompassing explanations he could think of were vague and storybook, and he had no interest in sharing them with Ras. He figured his inability to come up with a straight answer was due, at least in part, to the fact that he was still subconsciously trying to ignore his affection for the undead paladin.

"You don't know?" Ras inquired incredulously.

"I don't think about it," Nathanos quipped back.

"… Perhaps you don't love her, then?"

The Ranger Lord's dead heart gave an angry spasm. Nathanos grimaced in irritation, and then gave a dry chuckle. "Oh, wouldn't that make the world just peachy…?" he asked almost dreamily.

Ras looked at him bewildered for a moment. "Why does she love you?"

Having recovered from Ras's previous questions, Nathanos answered with his usual bitter aplomb. "My sense of humor, of course."

"Of course…"

* * *

Undercity

At last, Euquin located her destination. The chamber had been hard to find, hidden deep below ground through many winding passageways. But she had found it. Four elite warriors stood guard in front of the chamber, denying entry to all. She did not approach them, but rather took in a deep breath. The scent of her goal wafted to her._ "I've found it, Varimathras. I know where it is."_

She projected to him an image of the chamber and its guards, as well as of the complicated passageways she took to come to her destination. She felt the demon's pleasure, and smiled innocently.

Euquin's silent observer drew in the taste of telepathy, analyzing it as it shuttled past him towards a mind just outside of the city. He tapped gently into it, and let the telepathic words flood through his consciousness.

_Varimathras?_ The silent observer blinked, and then gave a slow, cruel smile. Varimathras… Oh, what a lucky, lucky day…

After a moment, the dreadlord-in-question's voice came to her over the mental connection. _"Wait for me,"_ he ordered. Euquin nodded enthusiastically, and wrapped her hand around the volgue she had strapped to her back. She'd need the wicked polearm soon- she was certain.

Varimathras grimaced as he looked up at the great cave before him. The cave had once been a secret entrance into Lordaeron- a large sewage pipe that traveled down under the old city. Now, the entrance was reasonably well known, but still ill used. There were many more convenient ways of entering the Undercity; this entryway required far too much walking. Still, only a handful of abominations guarded this particular path, and the route was relatively free of intelligent Forsaken. If he were to reach the bottom, he would be attacked by the whole host of the Undercity. It was to his fortune that he didn't need to decend that far down the passage.

The tunnel that Euquin had found could be accessed from a side sewage pipe. All he had to do was get past a few abominations, and he would have a clear path to his final destination.

He shifted and looked down at his feet. Connected to his foot bones were two new replacement hooves, made of metal. They wore painfully against the healed tissue of his legs, reopening old wounds. Furthermore, they exerted an uncomfortable pressure on the bones themselves.

Nevertheless, they allowed him to move around freely, without crawling or being dragged by Euquin. They gave him freedom, and a means to complete his current mission. He'd survive the slight discomfort they gave him. His lips moved, mouthing carefully over the words of the spell he intended to cast. He had to get them absolutely right. Without fingers to perform hand gestures with, he was already at a disadvantage while spell casting. He could not afford to lisp should his missing fangs give him difficulty. This had to be done perfectly.

He reached a hand into a pouch tethered at his side, and touched one of the infernal stones he carried there. One to distract the abominations in the tunnel, one to help Euquin against the chamber guards, and one "just in case". Varimathras hoped to the Nether that it would be enough. He did not notice as Euquin's mysterious observer slowly materialized beside the entrance to the cave.

Said observer took one look at Varimathras, and then flat out stared, his eyes wide in incredulity. Detheroc took stock of his brother's condition, noticing Varimathras's various wounds. An overwhelming urge to laugh suddenly rippled through him, and he only contained himself by sheer force of will. His eyes flicked from his brother's missing horns, to the scarred sockets where the dreadlord's wings had been ripped from his body.

_Who fares better now?_ he gloated silently. He had intended to immediately alert the city as to Varimathras's presence, but the situation was too much for him. He couldn't even bring himself to slay his pitiful brother, and instead chose merely to observe.

The broken dreadlord moved his hand from the infernal stones to his abdomen, as if experiencing a fit of heartburn. Detheroc blinked, and narrowed his eyes. If he stretched his senses enough, he could just barely feel a soul crystal that his brother must have recently devoured. How unusual. Varimathras had always preferred blood. Souls had been Detheroc's favored sustenance. Why would Varimathras have consumed a soul? And furthermore, why would said spirit not have been digested yet? He gave a small smile, further amused by Varimathras's wretchedness. Apparently his brother had bitten off more than he could chew, and had attempted to swallow some particularly potent spirit.

Detheroc allowed himself amusement for a few moments. But on a more pressing note, what could Varimathras have hoped to accomplish by returning to the Undercity? Detheroc could not guess, and so he settled down to watch.

* * *

Naxxramas

Ketala looked down at Mograine for a long moment. The specter of Arthas stood by, eyeing her coldly. Images flashed before her eyes, memories and visions sent by the Lich King. She ignored them, and focused entirely on the deathknight before her.

Ketala had the eerie and overwhelming sensation that everything hinged on this very moment- that she stood on a crumbling tower and was making a decision as to which direction she was going to dive. She could not see the ground from where she stood, and had no idea what route might preserve her. And no matter what direction she chose, there could be no back tracking. When she selected, her choice would be final.

As she stared at Mograine, she was filled with a wealth of uncertainty. He had just offered his services to her, but she was not certain if she wanted him. The man was an insane servant of her greatest antagonist. His mind was a tainted cesspool of broken glory and shattered light. He had promised her that she would fall in Naxxramas, consumed by Arthas's power.

And yet suddenly he knelt before her, his entire demeanor changed. She had the unsettling impression that he'd been testing her, but she had no idea for what, or whether or not she had proved worthy. In the back of her mind, she could still hear the mental anguish of her adopted parent. Images ripped through her mind of carnage and betrayal. She could feel her power waning now that she no longer had Velden to protect.

She did not have long; she had to choose now.

Ketala stared at the fallen Highlord, her mind flicking through thousands of ideas and images and experiences. She recalled the old stories of Mograine, the Ashbringer; of how the Scarlet Crusade had once been a noble order, dedicated to fighting against Ner'zhul's evil. She recalled how it had fallen with his death, and saw its degradation mirrored in the broken spirit of the deathknight before her.

Was Mograine so different from Nathanos, or Zeliek, or Lodan, or all the ghouls under her care? Could she help him? Could she save him? She pitied him, that was for certain, and Ketala's maternal instinct was strong. She reached out tentatively, touching his mind again. The chaotic entity she encountered was so perverse, so mad, that she withdrew involuntarily.

No. This was different. She could do nothing for him. She would not be aiding him, or comforting him. Accepting him was not like accepting Zeliek. Mograine was older than her, wiser… Ketala was a great swordsman, and a devout servant of the light, but Mograine had been its champion. He had slain thousands of undead, whole armies, with nothing but his sword and his faith. He had been more a paladin than she could ever be. And even now, in the enigmatic chaos that shielded his mind, he was stronger than her. Mograine did not share Zeliek's humanity or frailty. Where Zeliek had possessed purity, Mograine possessed power. There was a presence to him, an intent and a will that were as inscrutable as the Lich King's own.

Looking down at him, Ketala was filled with the sensation that _she_ should have been the one who knelt. Accepting him meant something else entirely; it meant entrusting her soul to him- him, the fallen pride and glory of the Holy Light.

Shrieks echoed all around her. Ketala could hear the clattering of Nerubian legs against the stone walls of the ziggurat, and the pounding of Abomination feet as they lumbered down its passageways. The images in her mind were growing darker, and the specter's gaze bored through her soul. She shivered, and then slowly moved up to him and tentatively placed a hand to the crown of the kneeling deathknight's head. Her skin crawled at the feeling of the darkness within him. She closed her eyes and sighed. Ketala had already subjugated herself to so many evil deeds, to so much taint. It was a wonder the Light still came to her call.

And yet…

If this was to seal her doom, perhaps it was an appropriate way. Trusting in the un-trustable. Putting faith in the damned. She had killed so many in the last two years… She had made so many mistakes, and committed so many sins. If this was to be her end, then at least she would be holding true to her character and her faith to the better end.

She tentatively threaded her mind through and around his. Protective magic gushed through him, and she slowly knelt. He blinked and lifted his eyes to her as she reached past his sword. Her fingers touched the holes in his torso where her scimitars had punched through his armor. The protective magic oozed to the site of his wounds as healing light trickled from her fingers, knitting the torn tissue back together. This was a trick she'd learned after healing her own undead for so long.

The ex-Highlord tensed, and just watched her. She finished healing him, and then drew back. She observed him for a moment, and then smiled.

"_You need a bath and shave,"_ she observed_. "You're a mess."_

The corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a sickly smile. A massive skeleton lumbered into the room and started to head towards them. Ketala never glanced away from Mogriane, but the skeleton suddenly turned to barricade the hallway.

"_He will punish you. You will not emerge unscathed. The final blow is coming," _the deathknight cautioned, his voice coming across in its disturbing fashion.

"_What do I do?"_

"_Give in."_

Her eyes widened._"What? I finally just retrieved my will to fight again!"_

"_Then fight. But then give in. If you don't, if you struggle until the last, then he will have to defeat all of you to win. If you give in, he doesn't."_

"_Why should I make life easier for him?"_

"_Because, in the end, less of you will be destroyed."_

She blinked, tilting her head to the side.

"_Wait for the moment. The perfect moment. Conserve and protect the last part of you that is still Ketala."_

"_And allow myself to become a monster?"_

"_If you accept the premise that you cannot prevent becoming one, then you will see the wisdom in my advice. Ner'zhul will never assume full control over you. You are too valuable. If you truly do have faith, if your spirit is as strong as you think, then you will be able to save yourself at the crucial moment. Don the armor of a death knight. Take your position in his armies. And when the moment comes, when your memories of the Light are triggered, enough of you may be left to undo what has happened here. But if not, that same moment will come, and you will be empty."_

She stared at him.

"_Now go. Ensure the blow falls now, while you are ready, and he is not. Go." _He grinned broadly, sickeningly.

Ketala stared at him, torn, indecisive. At last, she closed her eyes and sighed. Decisions, questions, fates, assurances, promises, destinies. - She hadn't the foggiest idea what was truth and what was conjecture. She took in a long breath, and let thoughts of good and evil slide from her mind. She placed a hand over her heart. Holy energy rushed through her, filling every particle of her body. It spilled through her, wrapped around her, and then launched forward. It tore through the images, and past the specter. The Lich King had instated many magical means to keep her mind caged within Naxxramas. Like a lance, Ketala's will pierced through these protections, ripping them aside. Her senses stretched out across the globe, reaching, searching.

"_NATHANOS!"_

A thousand scattered images followed her desperate mental scream, broken fragments of the hallucinations she was enduring, of her nightmares, of the Lich King, of Zeliek, and Mograine, and of slaughter- too many memories to keep track of, too many for him to take in.

The poor Ranger Lord was knocked clean off of his worm. He fell a good ten feet (Ouro had been upright, as opposed to entirely horizontal) and landed with a crack upon the ground. His shoulder twisted into a direction it was never supposed to go, tendons snapping. The sheer amount of mental information had blocked out almost everything else- apparently including balance control.

Ketala winced, and sent a blushing, apologetic, _"Oops."_ And then the Lich King's mind was enveloping her again, wrenching her back from the world. She felt Nathanos numbly grabbing for her, despite his surprise. For a moment, their minds touched, and then she was dragged back down into blackness.

Immediately the Lich King's mind rushed in on her full force, tearing at her, shoving visions into her cranium. Her eyes widened and Light rushed through her, trying to stave him off. _"Now!" _Mograine snarled._"Now, quickly! Go, and do not stop until he has finally caught you!"_

Ketala shuddered violently, pushing away the images of macabre death that blurred her vision. She looked up at the ex-highlord. Any motives he might have had were hidden behind his impregnable wall of intensity and madness. She closed her eyes. _"Nathanos, save me," _she murmured to herself. _"You reached for me. You want me. I need you… Please." _She prayed and begged a moment longer, and then she stood, slowly picking up her swords. "Sacer Lux et Pyro," she murmured. Both blades immediately began to burn with holy flame.

Mograine smiled.

* * *

Undercity

Euquin rushed forward, using her volgue expertly, slashing at the guards and holding them at bay. Varimathras nodded appreciatively, waiting for a way to open to the chamber behind them. Without hands, he could do little to fight against the guards, and he couldn't do much by way of spells. He had to rely on Euquin.

Strangely, the situation wasn't as horrible as one might imagine. For whatever reason, Euquin had great skill with the volgue. She was holding off two guards all on her own, and had already scored several hits on them. How she had ever ended up as a demented undead in Ketala's care was a mystery to the demon.

The other two undead warriors lay stunned on the ground, surprised by the infernal that had crashed into their midst. The great fiery monster slowly stood, contorting and letting loose a roar reminiscent of a blast furnace. It rushed forward to assist Euquin, arms flailing through the air. Varimathras took this opportunity to flit past the combatants. He reached the chamber doors and stuffed his hands in the handles, pulling with all his strength. This took quite the effort, as said doors were over a foot thick and made entirely of adamantine, but he managed, throwing the whole of his demonic strength into the task. . He was lucky the door hinges were well oiled.

One of the undead warriors turned towards him, and was promptly sent flying through the air by a wild blow of the infernal. Varimathras grunted and stepped through the opening he'd made. He then turned around and slammed the chamber doors behind him. A quick spell locked the door, ensuring that the guards wouldn't follow them. He listened for a moment to the muffled sounds of battle on the other side, just to be sure his infernal would hold up against the four Forsaken.

It was doing well. He could even hear Euquin's shrieks of battle-rage as she worked to hold the attention of the guards. Varimathras nodded, and then slowly turned around to eye the chamber.

It was quite an affair, with elaborate carvings decorating every inch of architecture. In the center rested a raised stone casket, like an altar, with the lid shut. Laid out upon the lid was a corpse.

Varimathras slowly approached the body. He stared at it for a moment, considering its perfectly preserved frame. After a few moments, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. This was his last hope, and his last chance.

He crouched and placed a disfigured hand to his chest, feeling the soul shard trapped inside him. Protective magic kept his essence from devouring it, leaving it whole and unharmed. Demonic energy whirled through his torso, starting to unravel the ties that held the crystal bound within him.

"My lady, please," he murmured softly. "Have mercy on your foolish servant." The crystal hummed angrily, but what choice did he have? There was no other path he might tread. If he did not do this now, he might lose his only opportunity to.

He lowered his head, and pressed his mouth to hers. The demonic energy with him constricted, liquefying the crystal within, releasing its contents. The banshee spirit tore through him, ripping up through his throat and out his mouth.

Sylvanas gave an unearthly scream as her soul slammed back into her mortal coil. The sound might have killed a lesser creature, but Varimathras did not even bother to cover his delicate ears. He merely released her and backed up to watch. Her body heaved, and her eyes opened wide. She twisted, shuddered, and convulsed, breathing in and out rapidly despite the fact that she needed no air. Her white eyes focused on him, and an unholy fury erupted in their depths, practically tainting them red.

"You."

The threats and implications associated with her tone overwhelmed all the verbal abuse that followed.

"You… you disgusting… putrid… filthy, miserable, backstabbing," she pulled herself up as she listed his faults, hauling herself shakily to her feet, "arrogant, _stupid_, DEMON!"

Varimathras did not respond; instead he dropped from his crouching position into a kneeling one.

"YOU BETRAYED ME!" she shrieked, grabbing one of her daggers from where it had been laid out beside her.

He placed his shattered hands flat on the ground before him and bowed his head submissively. Still he did not say a word. His lack of self defense only infuriated her.

"SAY SOMETHING! Defend yourself! Excuse yourself! Tell me how it wasn't your fault, how you were tempted, how you're a demon, how I should have known better!"

Silence.

"SPEAK, TRAITOR!" she snarled, her words venomous and filled with harsh consonants and grating vowels.

"It is good to see you well again, my lady," he murmured.

The Banshee Queen screamed in frustration, anger, and incredulity. She launched herself at him, her dagger slamming down towards his prone form. He did nothing- even as he felt it rip deep into his shoulder and tear through muscle, bone and tendon. She brought her knee up powerfully into his side, but he made no sound, and did not fall.

"Fight me, then, you troll-rutting coward!"

He never lifted his eyes. "I can't," he answered.

"FIGHT ME!"

"What do you want me to do? Gum you to death? I could not fight a dormouse," he responded.

"Then flee!" she hissed. Her knee connected again with his side, this time with enough force to knock him over. He grunted, but made no other sound, just lying where he had fallen. "Get up! Get up and flee, coward!"

"No."

Her eyes widened with angry disbelief. She kicked him again and again, hurling countless curses at him, until blood was trickling from his mouth. "Get up! GET UP!"

"No. I accept my punishment," he managed. By the Nether, he begged that this would work. She paused in her abuse and stared at him. "I betrayed you, and I have no where else to go. If you will not have me, then I have no reason to fight or flee; kill me."

"You won't even beg… You… you dare to do that to me, and you won't even beg," she noted in astonishment. His cyan eyes shifting, turning to look up at her face.

"It would avail me nothing. I was wrong."

Sylvanas stared at him, and then started to scream. She screamed and screamed, turning to a wall of her chamber and stabbing it, clawing at it, kicking it, till her dagger was chipped and dulled, and her fingers bled. She recalled being stabbed by the runeblade… She recalled being imprisoned in its depths- the horrible, lightless emptiness far greater than that associated with normal undeath She recalled… until finally the Banshee Queen leaned, defeated, against the scarred wall. She slowly slid to the ground, her whole body shaking with the memories.

Varimathras looked weakly at her, pulling himself to all fours. He grimaced as damaged ribs protested the action, and then slowly crawled to where his queen shivered. When he reached her, he laid a flayed hand tentatively upon her shoulder. She immediately whirled on him, grabbing his neck and squeezing with all her fury.

He winced and choked lightly on the blood that was also impeding his trachea. "Please, forgive me…" he murmured as earnestly as he could. Her reaction was promising; she shivered violently.

"You betrayed me," she stated flatly, emotionlessly.

"You beat me and left me senseless in Anub'Arak's cell."

Her eyes narrowed.

"And Arthas's offer_was_ tempting, as you suggested. He even shielded my thoughts from you."

"I was a fool to trust you."

"In my defense, I am a demon," he offered, being careful to state as opposed to beg. "If I hadn't betrayed you at least once, I would have been insulting your intelligence."

"And I failed to subvert you," she hissed.

"In _your_ defense-"

"I knew what you were! I knew I couldn't trust you!" she snarled. "I knew you needed a tight leash- knew you would betray me!"

"I was your closest advisor. Who else were you to rely on?"

"A weakness of mine!"

Her hand tightened on his throat. Her energy increasing with her hatred.

"Yes," Varimathras grit out, fighting mentally for air. "But in retrospect, we would have had far fewer problems if I had simply been reliable. I haven't exactly fared well as a result of my betrayal." He lifted a hand to show her his lack of fingers. Her grip loosened enough that he could breathe, and he was very careful not to display any relief at her actions. "In retrospect, I threw a bit of a temper tantrum. Something I have regretted every moment since."

"I should destroy you for what you have done," the undead elf stated, seeming to have much less strength. Her unhappiness now eclipsed her hatred, but the tables were slowly turning again. This was the moment he needed- a moment of slight vulnerability.

But Varimathras could only stare at her in dismay. He had formulated a plan as to how to answer her, and yet now he was uncertain. Her volatile disposition left him wondering if she would respond favorably and forgive him, or take offense and feel that he was trying to manipulate her. After a moment he sighed dejectedly.

"Milady, any positive thing I can say is a manipulation; every plea I can think of is a deception; every word that passes from my mouth is untrustworthy. I haven't the foggiest idea what to do, and I find myself pursuing paths entirely contradictory to my nature. I am a _very_ confused demon. My only hope left is that you will spare me. Please, forgive me. Please reinstate me as your majordomo-"

"You think I can just forget what you have done? You think everything can just go back to the way it was without PUNISHMENT?" Varimathras's ears twitched. He glanced past Sylvanas, convinced something was amiss. The banshee seemed not to notice, even with her uncanny hearing. Perhaps she was too angry?

"Milady, I can hope, can I not?" he inquired.

Sylvanas snarled and hurled him away from her. She stood up and looked away, fingering her dagger. Her eyes burned hatefully. Varimathras looked up at her. He shivered, touching his damaged ribs. "I am sorry for betraying your trust, Dark Lady."

"You will only do so again."

"Next time, you will be ready."

"Why should I spare one who will only betray me?"

He stood and slowly made his way over to her. "…For whatever reason you spared me when I first joined your service?" She whirled on him furiously. "I need you. I will take any punishment if you will spare me."

"That is what you said last time, and you betrayed me to Arthas!"

"Yes. It was one of my better choices. I have henceforth loved my inability to feed myself…"

"You return to me for only selfish reasons!"

"I am a demon," he restated.

"Exactly," she hissed, her anger building up again, lending power to her dagger arm.

"I am _your_ demon," he elaborated.

She paused, eying him stonily. "Mine?" she asked mockingly.

"No one _else_ would have me…"

"And I would?" she inquired dangerously. Varimathras looked directly at her, and then blinked. He was in such a position that he could see the door of the chamber behind her. It appeared to be cracked open, and yet Varimathras could hear nothing of the battle that should have been occurring outside. He couldn't hear the shouts of the four elite guards, nor the movement of his infernal. Varimathras couldn't exactly interrupt his conversation with Sylvanas, but he reached out mentally for Euquin.

"I am not certain. I hope. It at least appears that you value my presence, as you have not yet killed me." The words spilled out of him. He was distracted by searching for Euquin and so was not really thinking about what he was saying. "You have shown me affection in the past, trusted me, and have occasionally drifted off to sleep against me." At last, his mind seized upon the half elf's. He angrily demanded what she was doing, only to realize she was asleep. Asleep? How strange… Why was she…? "I am under the… unusual impression that you might possibly-"

Asleep?

Varimathras cut off mid sentence, his ears straining. He heard the steps of an invisible entity rushing towards Sylvanas's location. "Milady behind you!" he gasped, suddenly bolting towards her. She reacted reflexively to his lunge, stabbing forward with her dagger, and sinking the blade deep into his stomach. He didn't falter. His left hand reached past her face and over her shoulder, while his right sank into his pouch of infernal stones.

A fiery green meteor materialized but a few feet above them, and slammed into the ground just behind the Banshee Queen. A second dreadlord suddenly materialized there, screaming as green fire rippled over his frame. The infernal stood, unfolding from the meteor. Its hands grasped for him, but the enemy banished it with an angry flick of his hand. His green eyes burned furiously, and he turned his gaze to Varimathras.

"Long time, brother," he hissed. "Your idiocy just earned you a special place in the torture pits of the Legion."

* * *

Ahn'Qiraj

Nathanos was filled with many thoughts. The most prominent of these thoughts varied by the moment. At first they hovered around, "GAH! BRAIN… OVERLOADING!" and from there they flitted quickly from, "She's alive!" to, "Ketala!" to, "The _nether _was that for?" until they finally came to rest upon "I probably deserved that," which was one of the most mature thoughts the Ranger Lord had ever deigned to possess. After some time, these thoughts slowly melted away to be replaced by blinding pain.

When Nathanos could see again, he blinked rapidly, and looked up at his two companions. Ras was standing over him, and appeared to be a mite worried. Flower was doing the chicken dance and shouting, "Look at me! I'm a bear!"

"Ah, sweet normality," the Ranger Lord murmured appreciatively, glad to be back in concrete reality. Ketala's wild explosion of mental imagery had left him somewhat disoriented. He shifted slightly, and grimaced as pain rippled up his side. One of his arms was snapped in two or three places, and his shoulder blade felt as if it had been wrenched out of place. Ras lifted a brow and offered him a hand up. Nathanos contemplated the hand a moment, and glanced up at the mage. After a moment, he took the ex-lich's hand, and regained his feet.

"What happened?" Ras inquired.

"Ketala's alive," the ranger noted. "And I think she's mad at me."

"To be fair, I would be too," the mage offered. Nathanos shrugged lightly. His injured arm screamed in protest and he scowled at it.

"We need a healer. And not just for me either," he gestured to Ouro's damaged chitin.

"I wouldn't advise going to the Cenarion Circle," Ras cautioned. "They have no love for Ouro."

"They'll suddenly discover wellsprings of affection by the time I've finish with them, then."

Ras grimaced. "Why is it you find yourself unable to solve anything without violence?"

"I'm a man. We solve our problems by swinging around sharp objects," Nathanos answered, ignoring the fact that his satirical description of manhood didn't actually apply to himself, or in fact contribute anything relevant to their conversation.

But Ras took the bait. "Are you saying that I am not a man?" the ex-lich asked.

"You _are_ wearing a purple dress…" Nathanos mused.

"_Robes!_" Ras corrected obstinately. "They are _robes_! The official color of the Kirin'Tor is purple!"

"So all mages are women?" he asked as he continued to walk, this time in the direction of the Cenarion Circle encampment. He didn't even bother trying to climb back onto Ouro's back with a broken arm.

"No! What does purple have to do with feminism? Purple signifies power- royalty!"

"Sure it does," the ranger intoned solemnly.

The ex-lich stared at Nathanos, at a loss for how to respond. He sighed, and looked over at Flower. "Good-natured, high-spirited ribbing. I hadn't the foggiest idea he was even capable of it. The adjectives just seem so…_wrong_ when associated with someone of his disposition."

"I can rub my belly and pat my head at the same time, _while_ jumping up and down on one foot. Want to see?"

Ras stared blankly at the necromancer for a moment. "I'd almost forgotten why we kept you around," he noted in an off-hand fashion, and then he started walking after the Ranger Lord. It was probably going to be a long day.

* * *

The Exodar

Tyrande looked up as teleportation runes spread across the ground. Velen's attention flit to the runes as well, and each waited the short time it took the spell to reach completion. Light flashed down cylindrically around the arcane latters, and suddenly Jaina had returned.

At her side was Furion. The Archdruid leaned heavily on his staff, looking tired but also content. Tyrande blinked and then immediately moved to greet him, and the two embraced tightly.

"I apologize for walking out like that, dear Tyrande," Malfurion murmured in elfish so that the comment might be private. "There were some things I simply needed to attend to."

She nodded in understanding, and gave him a brief kiss before pulling back. "What have you found of our Ember?" she asked him in Common. Furion lifted a brow at her use of 'our.' When Furion had left Tyrande, she had been claiming that Ember was not even her child. The druid glanced at Velen and nodded in greeting, before looking back to Tyrande.

"Ember and Zul'vii passed through the Dark Portal several days ago."

Tyrande blinked, surprised. She was uncertain whether to be horrified or relieved by this revelation, so she chose simply to concentrate on Furion's tone. He did not seem dreadfully concerned…

"And you? You seem unfazed by this news…"

Malfurion nodded, and looked from her to an equally surprised Velen. "Allow me to explain. I've seen MahiMahi."

"She resurfaced?" Tyrande asked in amazement.

"Yes," the archdruid reaffirmed. "She told me to let Ember pass through the portal. After a long period of introspection, I decided to do as she bade me. And there is something else. I have discovered the force in Ember that is fighting back against Archimonde's possession. Nature. Our planet went wild when she crossed through the portal, and was not sated until Draenor had also linked to her."

Nobundo blinked and looked to Velen. "I had sensed a sudden disruption in the world. The elements were all gathering in a certain location, and the spirits seemed to be drawn towards it as well."

"I stepped through the Dark Portal into Draenor after nature had finished," Malfurion continued, "just to be certain that she was safe. The nature spirits assured me that she was. Now that I know you might have been able to help her, I regret she could not have come just a few days later. But in the end, I trust Mahi and Curiato- and I most certainly trust Nature. I think she is in safe hands."

"I pray you are right, Archdruid," Velen said softly, "for all of our sakes. It is times like these that I wish I still dwelled in Shattrath, city of lights, so that I might have a greater impact on these events… But alas, what is done is done. I shall probably never see the city again, and we shall have to trust in the angels concerning Ember." He could do nothing about Archimonde or the night elf child at the moment, and it would not do to worry about things over which he had no control. He took a breath and catalogued those thoughts away in his mind for future reference.

Jaina blinked. She pondered for a moment, and then slipped past Tyrande and Malfurion.

"Actually Velen, about that… In theory, I could design a teleport spell that would take us straight to the city, to Shattrath." He blinked, looking down at her. "I'd have to scry on the city, and research all the cross-planar mechanics- both of which I could use some help with- but I could get you to Shattrath again. Many of your people still live there, correct? I'm sure it would be a great boon to you if you could travel there frequently to help with the various difficulties they're facing there. And as an added bonus, we could try and locate Ember."

"You can do this?" he asked curiously. "Develop a spell of that nature?"

"Sure. I've already developed a spell that can teleport a small army."

He blinked in surprise, and Jaina could not help but laugh. "A priest is filled with the splendor of the Light, and a shaman with the strength of the elements, but when it comes down to defying the laws of physics, look no further than a mage. It will take me quite some time to perfect this spell - maybe months, but I could do it with the aid of you and Nobundo."

The Broken shaman blinked and looked to her curiously. "I understand how the Prophet might be able to help you with scrying, but such things are not in my repertoire; and I am no mage. How could I possibly aid you?"

Jaina smiled. "Why Nobundo, I would think that would be obvious. You are tied very powerfully to the elements- the building blocks of Draenor. Teleportation often requires that a person visit a location first. Scrying out a location might give me a view of what it looks like, but a Shaman would be able to explain the very _feel_ of the local- something magic could never do. Furthermore, identifying the aspects of the elements associated with Draenor would help me anchor my spell to that world. In fact, I wouldn't consider the spell safe unless I had obtained your aid!"

Velen smiled lightly through his white beard, noting how the Broken draenei was standing taller and not slouching as heavily. The sudden companionship between the human sorceress and the old shaman looked promising, and Velen considered the idea that such a friendship might be beneficial to Nobundo's health. The Broken shaman had little to do around the Exodar at the moment, and he seemed to be withdrawing a bit into himself. Nobundo had been a bit of a loner for a long time now, and it would be good to get him out of the world and away from all temptation to engage in self pity.

"But of course, Lady Proudmoore" the draenei leader agreed. "We would be delighted to help you. Any spell that would help strengthen the ties between our people would be well appreciated. Still, I find myself very busy these days, and we should probably arrange a formal time for me to help you with your scrying. Perhaps Nobundo would be willing to help you for now?"

The shaman blinked and looked to Velen. "I would gladly offer the Lady Proudmoore aid… But do you not need me to help with the training of new shaman?"

Velen waved a hand dismissively. "There are many shaman willing to teach the youth now, thanks to your efforts, Nobundo. I think you have earned a reprieve from those duties. Besides, we have not yet sent a diplomat to Theramore, and that seems dreadfully unfortunate. We did not realize the character of the ally we were overlooking." The praise made both Nobundo and Jaina stand taller.

Jaina mentally recorded her response for further analysis. It occurred to her that part of what made Velen such a _powerful_ leader was his ability to inspire pride in those around him. This was a strange notion to Jaina, who was used to seeing strong leaders garner respect by inspiring some kind of fear. It was unusual to encounter someone who maintained their power by doing the exact opposite. Ironically, it reminded her of Thrall. Though the orc chieftain was forced to rule with an iron fist, he held his people together by inspiring pride in their heritage.

Her attention was brought back to the present by Velen's further assurances that Nobundo could do exactly as he pleased. Jaina looked to the Broken shaman and gave a smile. "I could use the help," she admitted. "And not just with the spell either; I could stand to learn some shamanism tips from a master." She gave a smile. "And I most _certainly_ could use the pleasant conversation."

Furion eyed Nobundo curiously. He hadn't originally thought much of the individual, and had actually been slightly repulsed by the Broken draenei's demonic taint. Through listening to Velen's conversation, he could better understand the shaman's worth, and he smiled in amusement as Velen and Jaina both herded him into a corner.

"Very well, then," Nobundo decided. "If both my sovereign and our newest ally insist, then who am I to refuse? I will go with you to Theramore, Lady Proudmoore."

"Great!" The sorceress proclaimed happily. "Erm, but hold on a moment. Malfurion, Tyrande, would you like me to return you to Teldrassil?"

"That is unnecessary," Tyrande answered. "I came here by boat, and I have transport secured to take us home. It would only take a few days to reach Teldrassil."

"Right then! Anything you want to grab before we head off?" Jaina inquired of the shaman. He shook his head, amused by the little human's demeanor. "Very well then. Prophet Velen, Shan'do Stormrage, Priestess Whisperwind- I wish you all good luck. Farewell." And with that, she began her teleport spell.

"Curious thing, isn't she?" Velen inquired, looking over at the Night Elf leaders.

"You haven't the foggiest idea," assured Tyrande. Furion looked at the two of them and broke out laughing.

"Indeed curious, but bold," he reminded them. Tyrande thought back to Jaina's comments about teaching Thrall to dance. She wondered if she might implore the human woman to confront Thrall about the logging operation in Ashenvale, and then shook her head to clear it.

"Indeed," she admitted. "Eccentric, but bold."

"Now Velen," Furion suddenly began, detaching himself from his mate. "I have been eager to speak with you ever since the Dark Portal opened. I surmise you have already spoken much with Tyrande, but perhaps we could discuss the Outlands?"

* * *

Undercity

Varimathras stumbled backwards, and Sylvanas' dagger slid out of him with a disturbing noise. He clutched at the wound, and at his damaged ribs. His wounds must have been too much for him, for he slid to the ground, unable to do more than glare angrily at his brother.

Sylvanas blinked in surprise and whirled to face the enemy dreadlord. Her eyes narrowed. "I recognize you. You were one of the three that tried to manipulate me. One of… _his_ brothers," she hissed, gesturing at Varimathras. "Detheroc. I tore you apart with my bare hands," she spat vehemently. "How is it you are alive?"

Detheroc chuckled, lifting a hand pensively to his chin. "That's the boon of being a demon," he elaborated. "When you die, your spirit often returns to the Twisting Nether. Normally you're bound there for a few thousand years, but sometimes you get lucky, and a demon requires your aid. Sometimes a few foolish cultists can be gathered together, and your life can be quickly restored to you." He pondered for a moment, and then grinned. "Either that, or Varimathras spared me…"

The dreadlord's eyes narrowed. "I did no such thing," he growled acidly, trying to regain his feet. Detheroc smiled and lifted a hand. A long black dagger suddenly materialized in his palm, sickly green energy coursing around it.

"Let me repay you for your lovely betrayal, Varimathras," he said gleefully. The dagger suddenly shot forward, barreling straight towards the broken dreadlord, its surface gleaming with thick poison.

Sylvanas sidestepped in front of it, and deflected it to the side with her dagger. During her conversation with Varimathras, her emotions had swung back and forward dramatically from enraged to miserable. She had been given no stability, no solid ground with which to fight from. She hated Varimathras- it was true, but she also felt so horribly betrayed and morose and frustrated.

But here was a new target. Fresh, and capable of spurring no melancholy. Here was an easy victim on which she could take out her frustration. He was a dreadlord, just like that which had betrayed her, but with no pleasant emotions attached. She was ill equipped, weak from being comatose so long, and facing a deadly opponent. Her feet became steady, her muscles slowly hardening and reorienting themselves. Her senses sharpened, picking up Detheroc's steady heartbeat. Conviction and anger rushed through her, and her eyes burned with unholy rage. In that instant she transferred all of her loathing for Varimathras onto this new target. There were no conflictions. There was no hesitation, no sadness.

There was only sheer, contemptuous hatred.

Detheroc frowned, and Varimathras grinned. The enemy dreadlord hadn't any idea what he was getting into. The banshee ranger smiled lightly and lifted a hand to her lips in a 'quiet' gesture. Detheroc blinked and tried to speak, but nothing came out. His eyes widened as he realized he would be incapable of any magic. Sylvanas grinned, and approached the dreadlord with her dagger bared. She would have fun with this one.

* * *

_**Yarg!**_ Review or I'll... 

...cry! (yeah, that's it!)


	12. Good Will

Merry Christmas! Happy Newyear! Sorry this wasn't out earlier, but I was enjoying the holidays. This chapter has not yet been proofread, so forgive me a few errors. I've put a lot of art on my site, and I think you'll enjoy. I'm thinking of getting a Deviant Art account. Anyway, I've drawn several pictures. They are as follows:

1. A picture of Ember and Fenuine. They're slightly older in this picture, just leaving childhood and maturing into adults.

2. A picture of Nathanos meeting Vaiden for the first time

3. A picture of Admiral Proudmoore begrudingly cuddling a sleeping Kallah

4. A picture of Kallah introducing Nobundo to Thrall

5. a CHIBI NATHANOS (That's right. Chibi.)

Merry Christmas! Please enjoy this chapter.

PS: The Bold, Itallic, Underline, and Page Center buttons are all acting whacky.

* * *

Good Will

* * *

(Theramore) 

The instant they arrived, Jaina was buried in several tons of shaggy wolf. Nobundo stumbled backwards, slightly alarmed by the beast's sudden appearance. At second glance however, the creature did not seem to be hostile. It was currently giving the trounced sorceress a big, slobbery lick. "Math!" Jaina protested, trying to shove the giant canine off of her. The Frostwolf gave a short bark of laugher and danced backwards. The Lady Proudmoore grunted and propped herself up indignantly. Math sat down, his tongue lolling laughingly out of his mouth and his eyes bright.

"Oh sure, sure, laugh it up fuzz ball," she grumbled. And then, remembering herself, she looked up at the Broken draenei. "Nobundo, this is Mathghamhuin, my Frostwolf. Math, this is Seer Nobundo, of the Draenei." Math blinked, and seemed to notice the Broken dranei for the first time. His ears perked up at once, and he closed his mouth and tilted his head to the side. Curiosity was manifested so clearly over his canine face that Nobundo had to give a small smile, and he looked to the Lady Proudmoore.

"Another bit of culture exchange, I presume?" he asked knowingly. Jaina laughed and nodded, pulling herself to her feet.

As she did this, Math approached the draenei and began to sniff. His tail flicked through the air thoughtfully and the scents he detected made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The shaman _certainly_ smelled unnatural in many ways... And yet at the same time, he smelled quite natural in many others. The duality of the Broken draenei's nature was quite puzzling to the Frostwolf. Still, the mistress seemed to trust him, and Math could detect no hostile intentions...

"Math was a Winter Veil present. He's quite scandalous," Jaina was saying.

Finding the results of his cursory examination of the draenei satisfactory, Math began to swish his tail happily and allowed his tongue to loll again. The expression was so comically innocent that the draenei had to give a light chuckle. The old shaman eyed the Frostwolf a moment, and then lifted a three fingered hand and presented it to the wolf. Mathghamhuin blinked his yellow eyes and sniffed curiously at the proffered limb, and then nosed it lightly. He received a pleasant pat on the head for his good will.

"I'll have the servants quickly prepare a room for you," Jaina was saying, moving towards a door. "I have several on hand for diplomats, and I hope they'll suit your tastes."

Nobundo just nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. From the moment he had first arrived in the sorceress's quarters, Nobundo had sensed something peculiar. He could not exactly place his finger upon what he detected, but he was absolutely certain that he, Jaina, and Mathghamhuin were not the only ones within Jaina's quarters. It appeared that there was another being, in one of the adjoining rooms. Lest he was mistaken, this being was currently spying on them.

"If you would just wait here a moment, I'll fetch them and inform them of your presence."

"Take your time," Nobundo answered softly, his senses probing towards the thing he sensed. "Your hospitality has already been quite refreshing..."

Jaina blinked, noticing the far-off look of the Broken shaman. Although he was busy scratching Math's ears in the most delightful of fashions, Jaina recognized that the shaman was concentrating on something else entirely. In all the short time she had known the draenei, she had never seen him zone out in such a fashion before, so she could not contribute it to senility. Something about the area had attracted his attention, but what?

It took her a moment to figure out this puzzle, but then the sorceress's eyes widened as she recognized the most likely source of the old shaman's distraction: Kallah.

Nobundo could sense Kallah. And why should he not? The Broken draenei had been able to sense Jaina's very meager connection with the element of water. Kallah was from a very notable bloodline of powerful shamans, and Thrall had taught her many of the art's fundamental principles. The little girl could already call small bursts of lightning.

Jaina hesitated about leaving the room. Although Nobundo was a reasonable and fairly tolerant being, and although she doubted he'd go snooping around her rooms, she _had_ only met him that very morning. It was not yet the appropriate time for him to be made aware of Kallah's existence. Still, she couldn't remain here and _not_ fetch the servants. As the sorceress turned and walked out the door from her quarters, she hoped her positive impression of the shaman was correct.

Nobundo looked at the door as it closed behind his unusual host, and then turned his eyes to one of the side rooms of her quarters. The door to that chamber was very slightly ajar. It was dark inside, and Nobundo could see nothing within; he was certain, however, that something was watching _him_ from the other side. It would take only a gesture of his hand, a tiny breeze of wind, to open the door and expose whatever was on the other side. Still, he did not do so. Jaina had been extremely accommodating and open. She'd introduced him to her dog. If she was withholding the identity of someone dwelling within her quarters, then she probably had a good reason for doing so.

After a moment, he lowered his hand from where he was scratching Mathghamhuin's ears, and rummaged around in the satchel he always carried at his side. His fingers closed around a crystalline artifact and he looked at the object he had found. He nodded to himself, and then slowly approached the door.

Math stood as he realized the draenei was getting dangerously close to the mistress's pup. He walked swiftly after the strange man, prepared to drag the two-legged away should he try to enter the little one's room. Nobundo patted the Frostwolf's head reassuringly, and slowed as he reached the door. He halted a few feet away from it, when his instincts told him that the canine would allow him to proceed no further. The shaman looked down at his satchel, his deformed hand still wrapped around the object he'd found in its depths. After a moment of contemplation, he laboriously sank to one knee, pulled the crystalline spirit totem from his satchel, and placed it definitively upon the ground. His glowing blue eyes flicked to the partially opened door. The shaman could almost make out a small silhouette amoung the shadows, and when he looked at it, it retreated slightly. Nobundo smiled lightly, reassuringly. He leaned over and, with a nudge of his arthritic knuckles, sent the totem sliding across the floorboards. It bumped up lightly against the partially opened door. The silhouette returned.

There was a long, still silence.

Kallah was used to hiding when people visited her mother. Most of the time, she just stayed in her room. She would be very quiet and careful not to make any noises. She had many fun hiding spots all set up, and it had become something of a game to her.

But Kallah had never been in the situation where some-one she was hiding from already seemed to know she was there. It did not help matters that Kallah was Jaina's daughter, and with that lineage came a lot of responsibility- a responsibility, that is, to heed the whims of curiosity. It was thus that Kallah found herself squirming in place, trying to restrain herself from pouncing upon strange cylindrical object beside her door.

Nobundo seemed to notice this, and politely looked away. Tiny gloved hands nabbed the totem so quickly that he might have missed them even if he had been watching. The door closed with a dull little smack, and the old shaman chuckled.

"It is a totem," he offered to the entity behind the closed door. "Shamans use them to channel elemental energies. You may have that one if you so desire. That particular one is an Earth Totem."

No answer came. After awhile, Nobundo stood and moved to a less conspicuous location. He'd ask Jaina about the entity later, when the sorceress was more comfortable with him.

The Lady Proudmoore returned surprisingly quickly, and was happy to show him to his rooms. They were considerably more lavish than he was used to, but he did not protest against his host's judgment. To do so would have been rude.

* * *

(Cont.) 

Jaina sighed as she left Nobundo in his new rooms, her mind racing rapidly as she tried to come up with some means by which she might keep Kallah undiscovered. The most logical course of action would be to take Kallah to her father, but this particular strategy was not exactly viable. Thrall was in Silithus overseeing the war front at the moment, and Kallah wouldn't have been any safer from discovery while in his care-

Speaking of Thrall…

As Jaina entered her private quarters, her eyes immediately darted to a simple blue gem on one of her many shelves. Ordinarily, this gem was rather dull and unreflective. At the moment, however, it was glowing brightly. The sorceress sighed and rubbed her forehead. The gem was one of a pair; the other was in Thrall's possession. Hers was currently glowing because the orc Warchief wanted to speak with her. Which meant that something interesting was going on in Silithus.

Taking Kallah to Silithus certainly wasn't an option… No, what Jaina needed was a babysitter. Someone who could be trusted. Someone who would keep her identity and heritage a secret. Someone who would brave death to save her if she was in danger…

* * *

(A day later) 

Which is how Daelin Proudmoore found himself standing upon his small sloop with Kallah racing back and forward to peer over the edges all while she was exclaiming, "A boat! A _boat_!"

He wanted to cry.

For Daelin, it was to have been a day of rest. He was going to take his small boat out to the northern shore of Dustwallow Marsh. Some time ago, he'd found an exceptionally pleasant fishing spot out among the rocks that bordered the dangerous shore. The only down spot of the region was that the fishing spot was not very accessible by boat. To reach it, Daelin had been forced to tie up his ship and carefully climb over several slick rocks. Inevitably, he had decided that this was not relaxing enough to constitute a proper fishing spot. Rather than giving up, he had endeavored to create a small secluded dock on which he might sit and conduct his fishing at leisure.

Today was to have been a day of rest. A day of leisure and quiet contemplation. He would have gone out to that fishing spot with his pole and a jar of bait, and he would have sat there all day, leaning against the slick rocks, letting his cares slide away… When Jaina had inquired about his plans for the day, he had quite happily told her that he was going out on a fishing trip. In retrospect, he should have noticed the devilish gleam in her eyes as she assessed his person. "I see. Is your fishing gear already on board then?" Daelin had answered 'yes,' without even dwelling on the nature of the question.

He'd never seen it coming.

As Kallah went to race past him again, her gray cloak almost coming off in her excitement, he grabbed her by the shoulder. She eeped almost fell, and then looked up at him with a big smile on her half-hidden face. "A boat!" she cried enthusiastically. He looked at her for a long moment.

"A sloop," he corrected.

She blinked. "A sloop?"

"No member of my family has the right to call any sea-worthy vessel a 'boat.' If you see _anything _floating on the water, and don't know what else to call it, ask me."

"A… a sloop," she repeated. "Are all bo-… um… Are all those sloops?" she asked, looking around and pointing at the ships around her.

"No. That's a sloop. Those two are ketches. That's a yawl," he said with sharp points. And then he grabbed her hood and pulled it lower over her face. "And get down. I don't want anyone to see you."

She blinked, sitting down right where she was standing and looking up at him in bewilderment. "How come?" she asked.

"And be quiet. I don't want anyone to hear you," he snapped. "Sit on your hands and don't move or say _anything_ until I tell you to." She frowned but did as she was bade, watching him walk to and fro, checking the ropes and sails, and making alterations to what he saw. She tried to peer over the edge of the boa- _sloop_ to see the other ships around her, but it was difficult to do so without getting off of her hands. After awhile, she settled for just looking around at the ship, trying to mark its definitive features.

The sloop was small- much smaller than the large ships Kallah had modeled and sailed across her koi pond. It had only a single mast, from which two triangular sails hung. Despite her desire to obey her grandfather, Kallah had never been on a boat before.

Jaina and Thrall had somehow managed to hide Kallah for years. They'd hidden Jaina's pregnancy and the little one's birth. They'd hidden her room, and her meals, and her clothing. They hid her playtime outside. They used invisibility potions and other tricks so that they might take the girl with them on forays out into their cities. But because of their excellent protection, Kallah had lived a very sheltered life. She had never been to the docks, nor seen a boat up close. Her mother had taken her to the ocean before, but only at night, when Jaina was certain they wouldn't be overseen.

Being out on the docks during the day, on a boat, with boats all around her, and seagulls in the air, and the shouts of sailors in the distance, and the smell of the ocean all around her… Well, it was rightly distracting. By the time Daelin had cast off and was steering the sloop away from the docks, Kallah was squirming as if she were in physical pain. He purposefully did not look at her, staring stolidly out at the ocean, his hands gripping one of the sail's boat's many ropes like steel vices.

At last Kallah could not take it anymore. She slipped off her hands and crawled up to the edge of the sloop and peered over the edge. The water rushed by below her, whirling in strange patterns in response to the graceful ship's passage. The sun glinted off the azure waves, making the ocean gleam like some type of gem, and she gave a light gasp.

"Kallah! Down!"

She jumped and quickly scrambled back to the ground, looking in the direction of the harsh command. Her grandfather wasn't even looking at her, wasn't even _turned_ towards her. She frowned and sat sullenly on her hands again, staring down at the boring floorboards beneath her. In all honestly, the Admiral had pulled the rudder up and was steering the ship by sail alone, just so that he would not have to interact with Kallah. Sailing in this manner was not easy, and so demanded his attention. It gave him something to think about besides the little girl who'd been thrust into his care.

When Theramore could no longer be seen past the marshy trees, he finally heard a little voice ask, "Can I please get up now, Grandpa?"

For a moment, he entertained the thought of saying no, and then his conscience (a somewhat neglected part of his brain, an observer might note) decided to make itself heard. He looked around, hoping that some Alliance ship was still within sight, but none were. After a moment he nodded. "Alright. You can get up."

Before he was finished with the first syllable, Kallah had sprinted to the side of the sloop and was looking around with wide, appreciative eyes. Daelin wondered whether or not he was allowed to find this behavior endearing. She wandered around the small ship, looking around in all directions and marveling at the endless expanse of ocean stretching out on one side of her. At last she brought her attention back to the ship itself, and wandered over to have a look at the various ropes that held the sails in place.

"Don't touch them," her grandfather's voice ordered sternly, coldly. Kallah had no desire to accidentally break the sloop, so she did as she was ordered. A part of her wondered, however, why her grandfather was in such a bad mood.

With Kallah so preoccupied, Daelin was able to partially ignore her for the first stretch of the journey. After staring at the ocean for awhile, he began sailing on pure instinct, and his mind wandered…

"Grandpa?"

The Admiral blinked and looked down at Kallah. She was gazing up at him inquisitively with her hands behind her back. He was just about to roughly ask what she wanted when something occurred to him. Kallah had never been on a boat before. The sloop's railings were only a few feet in height, and the ship rocked and jumped as they sailed over the ocean. Yet here she was, standing without even holding on to anything, as if she'd been born at sea. He regarded her a moment, and when he spoke his voice was much softer than he originally intended.

"Yes, Kallah?"

The little girl bit her lower lip and looked down for a moment, before lifting her eyes back to him. "Why don't you like me?" she asked hesitantly.

His gaze lingered on her a long moment, before he lifted his head to look back out at the ocean. "I didn't have you sit on your hands because I dislike you, Kallah."

"… Then why?"

"No one knows about you, Kallah. They'd wonder why I had a little girl on my ship if they saw you."

"Why shouldn't they know I'm here?" she asked in confusion.

"Why does your mother make you hide when people visit her? Why do you always have to wear a cloak, and only go out at night? Why have you never seen a boat up close before?"

Kallah frowned, not knowing the answer to any of these questions. "… Why?" she asked after a long moment.

"Because if people knew about you, they would hurt you."

Kallah blinked, her eyes widening. "Why would they do that…?"

"You are half orc and half human. And orcs and humans don't get along well- aren't supposed to get along well."

"What are orcs and humans?" the little girl asked after a long moment. Daelin perked up and then spun around to stare at her in disbelief. She looked up at him innocently, eyes curious. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again, uncertain what he could possibly say about this. Rather than answer, he secured the sails, and then went to the back of the sloop and sat down at a bench there, putting the rudder back in the water.

Kallah was confused by all of this, and hesitantly followed him to the back of the boat. He looked up at her, and then patted the bench beside him. The gesture was so casual that Kallah simply had to comply, and she plopped down on the bench, looking curiously up at him. He seemed to be thinking hard about something. One hand just rested on the rudder, occasionally tweaking it. The other stroked over his chin and mustache thoughtfully.

After a long time, he looked down at her. "A long time ago," he began, "before you were born, before your mother was born, when I was just a lad, there was a man named Medivh…"

And with that, he proceeded to tell her the old stories of the first and second wars. He told her about the orcs, and how they had invaded the world and fought with humans. And slowly, after he had thrown in description after description, he saw the truth begin to dawn on her. When he finished his tales they sat there quietly for awhile. The sun was high in the sky.

"So…" Kalah said slowly, "is… is that why you don't like my daddy?"

Daelin nodded. "That would be the reason," he agreed.

"But Daddy isn't like that at all! He is nice and kind, and plays games with me, like playing Ogre or… Dragon, or, or looking for pictures in clouds!"

Daelin looked down at her. "… Those stories were from a long time ago, Kallah," he said with great difficulty. "Things change. But sometimes, people can't forget what happened. Can't forgive. You're half orc, so humans are going to see you as a monster. And you are half human, so orcs are going to see you as a… monster… If people knew about you, they'd hurt you. That's why your parents keep you a secret. They want you to be safe."

"So you made me sit on my hands because you wanted me to be safe?"

He nodded somewhat reluctantly.

"Oh." She thought about this for awhile, and then quite suddenly hugged him. He lifted his arms reflexively away from her, and looked down at her in mingled disgust and affection. "Thank you, Grandpa," she murmured. Daelin grimaced and then lowered his arms again, resting a hand upon her little back. In the end, Kallah was just a child. She had done nothing to deserve his hatred.

* * *

(Silithus) 

Jaina first teleported to the Alliance and Horde legions camped just outside the great gates of Ahn'Qiraj. The second she arrived, she was nearly blown away by the sheer volume of cheering that filled the air. The entire camp was awake and celebrating. The vast amount of booze available in her relative vicinity was enough to stagger the sorceress- mostly because the liquor was forbidden on the premises. The lady cast a mana shield on herself just to avoid getting injured by any drunken partiers, and slowly made her way through the camp, looking for the source of the commotion.

She could guess, of course, what all the excitement was about, but Jaina was the type of person who required some type of physical proof before she'd believe something. The Alliance and Horde who saw her began to open up a broad path for her to walk through, and many bowed or raised a mug of ale in toast her. She smiled, shaking her head at the soldiers' antics. When she at last came to the center of the camp, she found a band of ragged adventurers there. One was holding up a bloated and very dead-looking eyestalk, and waving it back and forward for all to see. As she approached, the revelry suddenly died down. For a few moments, there was utter silence, as hundreds of eyes turned to her.

Jaina's eyes focused on the eyestalk, her expression thoughtful. Even without reaching out her senses, she could detect the sheer evil emanating from the disembodied appendage of the dead god.

One of the adventurers finally stepped forward- a great orc armored in thick sheets of plate. "C'Thun is dead, Lady of Theramore. His presence has been sent back to the void from which it came; Ahn'Qiraj and all its inhabitants are at last defeated!"

There was a roar of approval from the revelers. A smile slowly spread over Jaina's face, waiting for the noise to die down again. When it was quiet enough that she could be heard, she spoke: "I am quite eager to hear this tale, but I am certain your party needs rest. Sleep, eat, and drink. You have deserved it." Then she turned to the revelers. "And find some fireworks! Crack open a barrel of dwarven ale, I'm certain you have one! Let the world know that the wretched Old One is finally _dead_!"

The answering roar of approval could be heard for miles away.

It took several minutes to find a Horde officer of sufficient rank who was still sober enough to tell her where Thrall was located. In this manner, she found that the Warchief was not within the bi-faction camp, but rather back at Cenarion Hold, conferring with the leaders there. She thanked the officer for this tidbit of information, and quickly teleported away to bring him the news.

At last, Jaina spotted a familiar figure standing atop a slight ridge. The sun was setting behind him, and he cut a handsome figure against the warm red and violet glow of the sky- at least from Jaina's perspective. He looked as comfortable in Ogrim's black plate as a normal man would look in a nightgown. His mane of black hair had been groomed lately, and his braids draped over his shoulders and chest, each almost as thick as her wrist. One of his hands stroked thoughtfully over his scruffy chin. His eyes were focused on something in front of him and, coupled with the set of his mouth, indicated that he was greatly amused. The only aspect missing from the image was the Doomhammer, for which Jaina felt another small ping of regret.

Jaina shook her head to clear it, realizing she'd been staring at him for a good half a minute. She idly hoped no one had noticed her love-struck fixation. The sorceress gathered her thoughts, remembered her reason for coming, and then quickly hurried up the ride to his side. "Warchieftain!" she called. "Thrall! I have great news!" He blinked and looked at her, and grinned.

"I was wondering what was taking you so long," he conveyed in jest. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No! No, I just checked the camp in front of Ahn'Qiraj first," she explained.

"You certainly took your time," he said lightly, still grinning.

"But that's just it!" the sorceress cried, "C'Thun is dead!"

He blinked and nodded slowly. "That explains things, then," he said slowly.

Jaina blinked, intrigued by the thoughtful expression on his face. "Explains what?"

"Well," the Orc said slowly, and then gestured in the direction he'd been looking earlier. "Do you see anything familiar?"

Jaina did look, and she blinked as she noticed that a giant sandworm wrapped luxuriously around the Cenarion Circle headquarters. A part of Jaina's mind wondered how she had possibly missed this, even with how exciting her news bout C'Thun had been. In light of fact that she'd missed something as glaring as a worm that stretched over a hundred feet in length, the sorceress decided to scrutinize the situation more carefully.

A few druids were scattered here and there, hesitantly healing burns and cracks in the worm's carapace. A small group was gathered near the head of the worm. Several druids appeared be casting some type of spell on the giant creature. One was healing the arm of a human hunter-

Jaina's eyes riveted on the wounded hunter. Quite suddenly it occurred to her that the man was no human- rather, he was one of the forsaken. There wasn't a bit of rot about him. The man's gloved fingers were whole. Dark lines bordered his eyes, but his pale face was perfectly intact. His brown hair was not stringy and limp, but thick and feathery. Nowhere about him could she see an edge of exposed bone.

It took several long moments of sizing him up for sudden recognition to dawn on Jaina Proudmoore. The forsaken before her was so radically different from the hunched monstrosity she'd met in the past that she'd barely made the connection.

"Blightcaller?" she wondered aloud. Thrall nodded in confirmation. "But what is he doing here? Shouldn't he be in the Eastern Plaguelands?"

"I wondered the same thing. The worm is Ouro, the battle-worm of the Qiraji." Jaina lifted a brow, and looked at him.

"So… You think he was there helping with the death of C'Thun."

"I had imagined he must have been fighting in Ahn'Qiraj. Now that I know C'Thun is dead, yes, I suspect he was at that event. He was burnt by acid, and had many small wounds that obviously came from Qiraji pincers," the orc elaborated. "The ranger showed up just after noon, flanked by two companions and the worm. The druids were up in arms ready to fight off an impending invasion. They were quite surprised when he demanded healing for himself and for Ouro. I had to get involved and speak on his behalf, and point out that he had obviously been fighting against the Qiraji."

Jaina chuckled lightly. "I'm certain he was confused that you helped him."

"Oh, not at all. He's a cocky one. He acted as if he'd expected it," the Warchief noted with a slight chuckle. "The druids still weren't wholly convinced- still aren't. They were going to refuse to heal Ouro, but then the worm just started moaning and crying and flopping about like a child with a stomach ache. At last the tauran couldn't take it any more, and went out to heal the poor thing."

Jaina had to laugh.

"After that, the elves decided to let it into the city so that they might keep a better eye on it. The only thing I'm worried about is that Nathanos might actually just set Ouro loose for the sheer joy of it," he noted with a smirk. "Fandral Staghelm's been trying to get some information out of him, and both are so utterly annoyed with one another that it's amazing they can keep talking. Nathanos is irritated by the questions, and Fandral is irritated by the vague and evasive answers of someone he considers an unwanted guest. I half expect one to just leap up and attack the other."

"From what I remember of Nathanos he was very volatile, so I do not doubt your assessment. He hasn't said why he's here or what his purpose is?"

"He's said nothing."

"And his companions?"

"One's insane. The other is a mage and teleported away when he realized questions were going to be asked of him. It's driving Fandral mad."

Jaina nodded. "I could try talking to him."

"I wouldn't see why he'd speak to you when he won't speak to Fandral."

"Ahh, but you fail to reflect on the most important aspect of this situation. Nathanos is not supposed to be here. And I can teleport."

Thrall thought about this and then acknowledged that it was worth a shot, so Jaina made her way down to where the Forsaken was standing.

"I grow sick of your games, Forsaken! Answer me at once, or you will find my people considerably less accommodating."

"As I told you," Nathanos interrupted lazily, "The defenses are of no concern to you."

"_I_ will decide what is of concern to me!" Fandral responded sharply, his violet skin glowing red with rage. "Bind the worm with roots. Our undead friend is remaining here until I learn exactly what I want to know about C'Thun!"

"Ah!" came Jaina's voice suddenly. Both Fandral and Nathanos looked to her immediately. The latter appeared to perk up immediately, his dark eyes focused intently on her; the former looked relieved by the interruption, but his vexation got the best of him.

"Well, Proudmoore, what is it?" he snarled.

Jaina lifted a brow at the night elf leader, but then smiled. "You've obviously never met Nathanos previous to this occasion," she said a little mirthfully.

"You know this Forsaken?"

She nodded her head. "Furthermore, I can tell you what he knows. Ahn'Qiraj's defenses have been breached, and C'Thun is dead." Fandral's eyes immediately widened. "Considering Nathanos's possession of the sandworm, we believe he was in the party that slew the old one."

The druid that was working on healing Nathanos finally finished mending the Forsaken's arm, and swiftly departed. Nathanos rubbed his previously injured wrist and rotated his shoulder around to get the kinks out of it. "I told him the defenses weren't his concern," the ranger said casually.

Fandral looked between the two, and then focused on Jaina. "Are you sure this is true?"

"I saw proof of the deed myself," she answered. "In the morning, I will send troops to scour the ruins, just to double check. C'Thun is dead."

The elf looked uncertain about what to think or do. He had waited for this moment so long… So many nights he'd prayed, thinking of his son… At last he settled on the most his most readily accessible emotion, and turned to Nathanos in irritation. "What the nether is wrong with you? Was it too difficult to just tell us this?"

The Ranger shrugged, leaning back against Ouro's carapace. "Would you have believed me?" he inquired. "I have no proof of the deed, and I'd just come out of the desert with the Old God's prized worm behind me. If I told you I'd killed C'Thun, you'd just ask me more annoying questions. And you still wouldn't believe me until you had proof. Word of C'Thun's death would get here at the same speed, whether I told you of it first or not."

Fandral stared at him in disbelief for a long moment, mouth opening and closing. At last he turned to Jaina in exasperation. "Do you want to deal with this?" he asked almost pleadingly. The sorceress laughed and patted the night elf on the arm.

"Get some sleep," she encouraged, before walking past to him. Nathanos was ignoring them now. He'd reached over and was soothingly stroking Ouro's antenna. The worm was grumbling contently. Jaina regarded the two for a moment before coming up before the ranger. He ignored her, but she didn't let his callous behavior get to her. "Salutations," she began.

The Ranger Lord turned to her, and was amused to find himself looking down on someone for a change. Nathanos was a good six inches taller than Jaina, and he savored the feeling of height. "Greetings," he responded unceremoniously.

"If I were unwilling to teleport you and you had to manipulate me to do so, would you want to go to the Undercity?"

"What?" He blinked at her, uncertain if he had heard her correctly.

"Well, it didn't seem that you liked answering straight questions, so I thought I'd ask a convoluted one and hope for the best."

Nathanos lifted a brow. "I see that…" he allowed, "But people normally start with the straightforward questions."

"Well that would have gotten us nowhere. I'd have asked if you wanted me to teleport you, and you'd ask why I thought you needed a teleport, and I'd say because there's nothing to do here, and you'd say you could travel by foot, and I'd say it'd be hard to bring Ouro, and you'd say you'd manage, and we'd all avoid the fact that you might- just might- want to get back to the Undercity. And in the end I'd give up, and you'd be stuck in Silithus with a giant worm and no means of getting to the Eastern Kingdoms any time soon."

"Either that, or I was just annoyed with the egocentric elf," he protested, somewhat offended by this excellent assessment of his character.

"You may claim that you do not suffer from chronic plot avoidance but we all know you do."

"Chronic plot avoidance?"

"All the world's a stage, and all the people in it merely actors. So, the Undercity?"

Nathanos stared at her for a long moment. At last he formulated a reply that went as such: "Could you give me a few minutes to decide if I hate you or not, first?"

"Take your time."

Silence.

"Alright, I'll let you do teleport me to the Undercity. But I won't like it," he said at length.

"Really? I'd expected you'd decline. Hmm. Well then, do you have any idea where we could find your companions?" she looks around.

"I suppose I couldn't convince you to leave them here?" he asked hopefully.

"Plot avoidance."

"But a plot implies everything's already written out for you!"

"If you could avoid it, could it possibly be pre-written?"

"But then doesn't "avoiding the plot" actually become the plot?"

"No. And when the plot is avoided, things tend to slow down and never go anywhere. It's a sign of a bad author."

"So you say that the Light is a bad author?"

Jaina caught sight of a strange necromancer adorned in pink feathers talking to Thrall. She figured she'd located the insane member of the ranger's party. "Nathanos, you're in charge of your fate. Not the Light. You're the bad author." And with that she started heading in Flower's direction.

The poor Ranger Lord could only stare after her.

* * *

(The Undercity) 

Detheroc suffered from a bout of momentary hesitation before it occurred to him that he didn't require any magical abilities to defeat Sylvanas. He had roughly double her mass, and was equipped with wings, teeth, claws, horns, and a full suit of plate armor. Sylvanas was dressed in light leather armor. Her only weapon was a short throwing dagger. In addition, the Banshee Queen had been revived only moments prior to his arrival, and was bound to be weak.

He gave a dark, smug smile, and then moved to meet her head on, his claws grasping eagerly at the air.

Sylvanas came up to him slowly, almost languidly. The corners of her mouth twitched as a smile lazily worked itself over her pale lips. Her white eyes blazed hungrily. Anger and frustration built up in her chest. Hatred, loneliness, malice, cruelty- all welled up inside her- stronger, stronger. The smile was not smug or satisfied; It was the smile of an axe murderer who tasted a kill in the air.

Detheroc grinned and took a fighting stance, readying himself for her attack. With Varimathras down, this would be far too easy.

But the Banshee Queen stopped just outside of his reach. Shudders rippled along her arms, and a vein stood out on her forehead. Although he was slightly taken aback by the sheer fury she seemed to contain, Detheroc thought nothing of it. Her anger meant nothing. He could still-

The Black Lady took in a deep breath.

Varimathras bit down on his own arm and covered his ears.

Then she screamed, and screamed, and screamed. Her banshee wail rippled from the room, cracking stone, sending dust flying. Several hundred feet above her, windows in abandoned Lordaeron shattered. Euquin and the guards outside her tomb were all jarred awake. The screamed echoed out into the Undercity, and bounced off every wall, creating a horrible racket. The psychic reverberations ripped into Detheroc's skull, flaying his mind like a meat grinder. It continued for nigh on thirty seconds, until the enemy dreadlord knew nothing of plots or schemes or Burning Legions- nothing but the tearing pain that threatened to blow his cranium apart.

When it stopped, there was silence. There was silence. Silence. Disbelieving silence.

Then a low roar began to build up, shuddering through the earth and rippling slowly up into the air. A roar, a tide, a wave growing higher and higher, and higher.

"Do you hear that?" Sylvanas whispered as she watched Detheroc writhe, his body bent double in pain. There was no way the demon could possibly hear her, but the words gave her such an overwhelming sense of satisfaction that she could not leave them unspoken. "That's my city. It hears its queen. It knows its matron. And none of it will_ever_ be yours. Not your pawn. Not your card. Nothing but your_grave_."

Her dagger plunged down. Again and again, tearing, maiming. A few to subdue. Then the wings to debilitate. And then the fingers, digit by digit, joint by joint. The feet, the teeth, the horns, the groin, the ribs, one by one, the eyes, the ears, inch by inch.

Varimathras watched quietly. He was pressing his own wounds closed with his shattered hands. He didn't move much; not only would doing so have further damaged his ribs, but any twitch on his part bore the risk of attracting Sylvanas' notice. He didn't really want to remind her of his presence while she was busy butchering his brother. So he remained quiet, and watched.

She tore into Detheroc with the fury of a woman possessed- like she were no saner than a ghoul or abomination. Blood splashed her face and clothes- it dripped from her hair and coated her fingers. Only by will did she retain a grip on her gore-slicked knife, and he was certain that she cut her fingers a few times in the process. As for Detheroc, he fought against her like a wild animal, desperately trying to get free. His efforts were in vain. The Banshee Queen clung to him like a leech, stabbing over and over again, in any manner that might cause grotesque amounts of pain. The knife shot upward in a beautiful arc, blood flying in an elegant fan, and then down, and up, back and forward.

When the Dreadlord could no longer fight back, a twenty foot spread of floor was pasted with gore, and his blood was splattered on every single one of the tomb's many surfaces. Sylvanas stabbed him a few more times for good measure and then released her pin on the demon. What was left of him lay very still.

She sat back on the balls of her feet and breathed in and out heavily. Her eyes lifted to the walls and roof, and a peaceful smile slowly spread over her lips. She chuckled once, and then looked lazily over at Varimathras. The dreadlord in question couldn't repress a shudder. Her smile opened into a toothy grin and she stood and came over beside him, still clutching her dagger.

Silence.

"You look lovely in red," Varimathras noted weakly.

"You think so? It is quite a change from my usual black…" she mused, holding out her clothing so that she might look at it.

"Well, it is a very lively color…"

Sylvanas looked back at him with a dark, quiet smile. Then she knelt and carefully gathered his upper torso in her arms and pulled him into her lap. The dreadlord winced, touching a hand to his protesting ribs. To his surprise, the Dark Lady shifted slightly to account for his wounds, and was carefully not to touch any of them. He blinked, puzzled by this behavior, and looked inquisitively up at her. Either Sylvanas was being gentle to increase the shock value of later violence, or she was showing him genuine concern.

He hoped it was the latter.

Blood dripped down from her hair and pattered over his chest and hands. Varimathras' eyes shifted involuntarily to his hair, and he felt his throat go dry with desire for food. He grimaced, shook his head briefly to clear it, and turned his eyes back to hers.

The Dark Lady lifted a brow, a smirk still dark upon her face. "You actually are. You are throwing yourself on my mercy. Even after seeing me tear him apart."

"To be honest, I am terrified," he said hazily.

"You seem calm to me," she noted.

"Blood loss," he explained with a dismissive wave.

"Most people panic when overcome by blood loss."

"Well… you see… I am sort of torn between shitting myself in blind panic… And becoming aroused at the sight of you covered in blood…" he answered truthfully. Her eyes widened.

Silence.

And then she suddenly threw her head backwards and burst out laughing. The sound was so different from her scream- so rich, so pure, so beautiful- even in all its blackness. She lowered her head after a moment and grinned down at him. And then, to his amazement, she lowered her head and kissed him full on the mouth. His eyes flew open and he shuddered as he tasted blood on her mouth. Her lips moved tenderly, caressing his with utmost affection and gentleness.

The dual nature of that kiss, innocent and erotic wrapped in one, overwhelmed Varimathras. He moved his hand from the wound in his stomach, and let his blood flow freely. As he had hoped, he blacked out before he had the chance to do anything stupid.

Warlocks weakened the doors to the tomb and mages bombed them with powerful energies. Priests ripped apart shadowy spells. Rogues worked at the lock and hinges, as warriors attacked the doors as a whole. When they finally broke through, they found Sylvanas standing there. She was drenched in blood and was currently engaged in pulling her quiver onto her back. When she finished, she tested her bow string, and then looked at the swarm of her people as if seeing them for the first time.

"We're going on a witch hunt," she said conversationally. "I want every undead who serves a demon before me dead." She pulled on her throwing knives with a jerk. "I want every apothecary and every deathstalker before me in a matter of minutes. Two or three priests are to attend to Varimathras, and preserve his life and health by any means necessary. Two are three warlocks are to attend to Detheroc and ensure that he never walks on Azeroth or any other world again. And someone is to find me a druid who will heal anything that pleases me."

For a long moment, no one moved. And then a deathstalker came forward and knelt- and another, and another. Everyone began to move; priests and warlocks going in droves to do the work she asked only a small number for. Apothecaries and deathstalkers pushed through the crowd to kneel before their matron. All was quiet as Sylvanas pulled on the rest of her armor and weapons. All was reverent.

The Dark Lady- savior, queen and goddess- was back.

* * *

AVPR was a terrible movie. End of Story. 

YARG!

(Remember to look at me art!)


	13. A Thin Line

My Starcraft fanfiction updated recently, with a chapter starring Artanis! Wooo!

Hi everyone, I've started a Deviant Art account. I haven't moved all my art over yet, but the URL is in my profile, and I've moved over most of the peices. I've also written a song that was used in this chapter, and I posted the music online at a generic upload site, where you can listen to it. That URL is also available in my profile.

* * *

_**A Thin Line**_

* * *

(Naxxramas)

Ketala whirled through the legions of the undead, her elegant scimitars dancing through their ghastly flesh. She entered the hallway at a run, and did not slow for a moment. Holy light rippled between the narrow walls of the passage, blowing lesser undead to pieces and sorely burning others. Every minion that Kel'Thuzad or Ner'zhul sent to block her route, she destroyed.

At one point, she came upon an abomination whose girth plugged up the hallway, denying her passage. As she ran towards the creature, she trailed her blades over the stone walls of the corridor, and flames ignited down their sides. Without pausing, without thinking, she whipped the blades forward, and two bolts of seething hot magma sailed headlong into the abomination's bulk. One of the projectiles hit the undead square in the face and caused it to stagger backwards. The other barreled into the monster's grotesque belly. For a moment, the abomination floundered helplessly under the attack. Then the magma balls exploded like shrapnel bombs, pasting the hallway with flaming hot gore.

When Ketala finally reached the undead monster, she vaulted over its falling body and dug her scimitar tips into the head of a hapless cultist as she went. The macabre scene of broken bones and pulped meat that she left behind her would have made Nathanos proud.

Despite the slaughter, Ketala's head was clear and empty; she inhabited each moment as it came, each sword stroke as it fell. She was every dodge - every slice. Her eyes flamed bright yellow, and her feet danced carefully over the ground. She was a weapon, an instrument of death and carnage. Not mindless, but focused so intently on the task that she might as well have been clockwork.

Ketala swept through the Deathknight Wing like the reaper of souls himself. She killed everything in her way: knights, trainees, ghouls and ghosts. Holy light followed her like a tidal wave, streaming down her arms, burning everything in her path. The foundations of Naxxramas shook with her fury, and for a moment she was no angel of compassion, but rather an angel of justice, golden and radiant.

When she came to a crossroads between the many wings of the necropolis, she was briefly tempted to head straight for Kel'Thuzad. Instinct warned her otherwise. Even in all her brilliant rage, she did not have the strength to kill him. Kel'Thuzad marked the end of her fury- not the beginning. She would have to avoid him for as long as possible.

So instead of heading towards her beloved parent, she surged with purpose towards the Abomination Wing, and slapped her blades together in anticipation.

She would weaken Arthas in any way she could. Maybe then some adventurers would be able to end the nightmare of the flying ziggurat once and for all.

* * *

(Zangarmarsh)

Zul'vii frowned and eyed the map. She turned it to the left, and then to the right, and then finally turned it upside down. "Aha!" she suddenly exclaimed, and she jabbed the map with her forefinger. "There we are! It seems we took a wrong turn at the giant glowing mushroom of death!" She turned the map upright and then upside down several more times, and then stood up and looked around. "Let's see… Ember, I think I've figured out the direction we need to head! Ten more minutes of play time, and then we're heading out, okay?"

Only silence answered her. Zul'vii blinked and looked behind her. The little girl was nowhere in sight.

"Ember?"

No one answered her. Zul'vii waited, expecting that Ember would jump out of the nearby bushes in an effort to scare her. But no Ember appeared.

"… Well, damn."

---

A good five miles away, Ember was squealing in delight as she raced around on the back of a very bewildered nether ray. The creature was flying back and forward at maddening speeds, trying to dislodge the night elf who had taken up residence on its back. Ember was already aware that she did not want _this_ particular nether ray as a pet, but she was having so much fun she couldn't just leave it alone.

"_Oh leave the poor creature alone,"_ a tauren ancestor spirit suggested, but his voice was filled with amusement. Ember just laughed. Most of the ancestors were busy holding a private meeting in her mind. She figured she could peer in at what they were saying, but she wasn't all that interested. The spirits could talk with each other for hours. They came from radically different races and viewpoints, and so spent much of their time compromising over their differences. They insisted this reconciliation was necessary, as it allowed them to act as a single unit to protect and guide her. So rather than bothering them, she just ignored their soft discussion, and concentrated on the confused nether ray.

Zoom!

"_She's already doing much better,"_ the draenei spokesman said to his fellows._"Her mind is starting to show clear signs of development and organization."_

"_Indeed,"_agreed the night elf. _"Look at her now. Ember's never been so happy or carefree. She's starting to catalogue things as 'fun' and 'exciting.' It's a good sign of heightened self-identity."_

"_True,"_the orc conceded, _"but will it be enough? Archimonde is starting to fight back again. There's a chance he's gaining power from the corruption of the world. If that's so, Nature could end up on the defensive again, and Ember will have to hold her own against him."_

"_What kind o' question is dat?"_ asked the troll. _"Who de nether could stand up against da big guy? We just gots to be making sure he doesn't break free. He's got to stay beneath Nature for dis whole operation."_

"_Or else?"_ questioned the night elf a tad disdainfully.

"_Or else we all be screwed, elf lady. Archimonde breaks free, and Ember will eventually go back to da way she was before we talked to her. And dere be no way she be saving anyone in dat state."_

"_The troll is right," _the draenei said slowly. _"We cannot risk Archimonde regaining power. Ember might be able to fight against him for a short while, but it is not a risk we can afford to take. We must take every precaution to keep him helpless."_

"_As much as I hate to agree with the troll, he is right," _the elf conceded._"We have to be patient. Each of us has their own agenda. We want to help our people, and free our lands, and bring justice those who have caused our children suffering. But we must set those desires in their proper places, and focus on helping Ember. Without her, we are voiceless and caged."_

The orc ancestor nodded. _"The sooner she gets to Nagrand the better. She will be safer there."_

The draenei nodded in agreement. _"Illidan is still searching for her magically, but our protective spells are holding. He cannot find her."_

"_He's bound to get angry at that," _the night elf pointed out.

"_Indeed. But it's necessary. Ember is not ready. Not yet."_

The tauren listened to his peers debate and argue without adding a word to the conversation. He watched as Ember finally lost her hold on the nether ray and went tumbling away. She 'oof'-ed and 'ouch'-ed and finally came to rest in a batch of ferns. She blinked at the sky for a moment and then closed her eyes and began to laugh. The tauren smiled lightly. _"Now look at you. You've filled your hair with sticks and leaves, and your clothes are filthy."_

"Again!" she answered. "I'm going to do it again!"

He laughed.

The Zangarmarsh was a maze of giant mushrooms, thick brush, glowing lichen, and hidden lakes. Ember didn't show the slightest intimidation. She knew exactly where she left Zul'vii, and she could smell several nether rays nearby. The little girl climbed to her feet and headed off into the forest, navigating easily around puddles of sinking sand and patches of poisonous mushrooms. As the smell of nether ray became stronger and stronger, she crouched down and began to sneak closer. She was very careful about where she set her feet, as she didn't want to disturb the smallest twig. Closer she came, and closer still, until the nether ray was right in front of her.

The creature's flat body was smooth and slimy, like a wet mushroom. Its back was raised in a hard ridge upon which a rider might sit. It was a flying beast, but its wings were nothing more than pulsing flaps of skin. Yet it floated in the air as comfortably as a normal ray or skate would float in water. Great prehensile spikes jutted from the top most portions of its wings, and mandibles surrounded a hideous face of ridges and teeth and overlapping flaps of skin. Tiny blue eyes, like holes seated deep within its head, gave off an unsettling glow.

Ember gave a big grin. The muscles in her legs bunched up tightly. Then she was jumping through the air. Her fingers coiled around its tails, and she scrambled quickly up onto its back and dug her fingers into its thick carapace. The nether ray gave a shriek of alarm, and bolted forward.

_ZOOM!_

* * *

(The Black Temple)

Illidan was in a foul mood. He tore through the Black Temple, barking orders and sending the whole fortress into a chaotic whirl. When someone displeased him, he would crush their skulls in or line their bodies with demonic fire. There were no subtle threats of torture or suffering. He offered no warnings as a prelude to his actions. The slightest provocation caused him to snap, and he'd reach out and remorselessly end the life of whatever had irritated him.

Akama found this behavior somewhat peculiar. He remained out of the pseudo-demon's way, watching from behind corners as Illidan raged about and snarled unrealistic orders at every poor soul he could find.

_Something's troubling him,_ the old draenei noted mentally. Illidan was a very violent person. Akama had seen him snap the necks of advisors out of sheer frustration, but the demon hunter's fits of anger were normally singular and brief. This time, things were different. Illidan had been on the rampage for over a week and evidenced no signs of stopping any time soon. _This is no show of anger. He is frightened. Only fear could eat at someone in such a fashion, causing them to strike out day after day._

In the two years he'd been at the Black Temple, he'd spun an intricate empire around its foundations. Through manipulation and raw displays of power, he'd surrounded himself in layers of protection; armor against anything that might do him harm. He had stood up against the Burning Legion, had stationed Kael in Tempest Keep and Vash in the Coilfang Reservoir, claiming the majority of Outland as his own. But now it seemed a crack was forming in the demon's impenetrable armor…

Akama watched as Illidan turned on one of his servants, claws bared, eyes flaming green. The draenei's intense gaze never wavered. He watched, his cyan eyes grim and determined, quiet but stoic. _Our lord Illidan is frightened, and his minions begin to express their discontent with his tyranny. The time to act draws close… _His gnarled clawed wrapped around the handles of his sickles. _I will be patient.__I will wait until the parasite is sickly and drooping, and then I will cut its roots out from beneath it in a single sweep._ He stepped backwards into the shadow, and his features began to merge and blend with the darkness. For a moment, all that remained were his glowing eyes, and then those too faded. _This place will be made hallowed again… I swear it…_

Illidan began moving to another room, and so Akama followed, watching the demon hunter from the shadows, marking his every blunder, a silent witness to his depravity. When the demon hunter seemed to have slaughtered his fill he stalked off to quieter areas. The old draenei followed him for awhile, but Illidan's blood thirst seemed slaked, and it was difficult to stay hidden from the powerful sorcerer. Sensing that the day's fruitfulness was at an end, Akama turned and began to slink away.

"Why can I not sense you?" Illidan suddenly snarled, his voice carrying powerfully throughout the chamber. Akama paused, momentarily concerned that he'd been found out, but when he looked around he realized he was not the subject of the demon's ire. Illidan seemed to be talking to himself, magical energies gathering around him. "I have cast this seeing spell a thousand times, and a thousand times it fails me! How could she be hidden from me? _Why_ can I not sense _her_?" He paused, waiting to see if this casting would reveal anything; A few seconds later his shriek of disgust and frustration indicated that it had not.

"How the nether did she end up on the other side of a scrying spell anyway?" he continued, falling entirely into a rant. "No one would teach that girl magic, not with the demon she has inside of her! It makes no sense. And yet I felt it! I heard her words. She was on Outland, I_felt_ her! But what the hell was she doing here? AND WHY CANT I SENSE HER-?" His words were unconnected streams of anger, byproducts of a rant that had obviously been going on for quite some time. Intrigued, Akama chose to linger a tad longer, his cyan eyes fixed on the obviously distressed demon.

Illidan's movements were jerky and uncertain. He was angry and yet his anger had no direction. He was left trembling in exasperation, pent up energy threatening to burst out in every direction. Worse, he seemed confused, like a cornered animal trying to find some way out of a hunter's snare...

He remembered hearing her voice, calling out his name, begging him to stop hurting her. He had been overwhelmed by dark anger and thick arrogance, by the shadows lurking in the back of his mind. But her voice had pierced through that haze, if only for a moment. It had let the light in, had shaken him awake. He had stopped the attack immediately, overwhelmed by what he had done. And then he remembered losing contact with her, watching her slip through his fingers like- like-

"SHE IS NOT DEAD!" he screamed aloud.

In the back of his mind, the shadow scoffed. _Of course she is. If she were alive, you would sense her. You killed her._

"_SHE IS NOT DEAD!_" he screamed again, but this time his voice cracked, twisting into what was nearly a cry of pain. It was like he had pushed the keystone out of an elaborate bridge, and the rest was tumbling down around his ears. He moaned and dropped to his knees, the emotional baggage of an entire week simply crushing him, worming into him, spilling poison into his blood. "I would never hurt her," he whispered. "She is not dead."

_You cast a pain curse on her. On a child. She is dead._

The pseudo-demon gave a pathetic, visceral cry of anguish, half moan, half sob. Akama looked on in amazement, having never seen the tyrant so small, so vulnerable. The Lord of the Black Temple wrapped his arms around his midsection and was violently sick all over the ground. This display of sheer emotional pain caught the Broken draenei off guard, and Akama backed up a few steps.

"Ember…" Illidan murmured weakly. "Ember…" The part-demon lifted a hand to his face and shuddered. _What have I done?_

* * *

(Naxxramas)

Ketala watched quietly as two abominations lumbered towards her. They had been made too large, and they moaned and shrieked as their terrible mass worked to crush their organs. Still they came closer, their multiple arms hefting meat hooks, cleavers, and bone saws. Ichor dripped from their mouths, and diseased fluid spilled from their cleaved bowels like small waterfalls. Around them, _things_ slithered over the ground, coming closer and closer to the undead paladin. They seemed to be compilations of unwanted organs and other refuse. A crippled hand dragged a pile of mashed brains around. A few intestines pulled a pulsing green blob behind it. All surged towards her, grabbing at her ankles, trying to knock her down.

Ketala took in a slow breath. Holy light spread out around her, gently washing over these unfortunate byproducts of darkness and disease. The organs and limbs all began to shudder and then one by one went very still, their unlife snuffed out by her blazing aura. She turned her attention back to the abominations, and fire shot down the length of her blades.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "You both look fresh. This might never have happened if I'd grown a spine a few days sooner." She crossed her scimitars and played them against each other, forming a fireball between them. Then she drew the blades apart and slashed forward. The fireball rushed forward, a smokescreen spitting up behind it. The fireball smashed into the face of one abomination and exploded, melting its eyes and removing the bulk of its head. The other flailed about in the smoke and then collapsed as Ketala's scimitars cut through the back of its thighs. The two monsters continued to flail, despite the fact that one was hamstrung and one was blind.

Ketala whirled around and came at them again. She stabbed and slashed, ripping them open and spilling their contents to the ground. When they stopped moving, she lit them both on fire and moved on, ignoring the smell of their sizzling flesh.

Further into the wing, she found undead scientists who had conducted experiments on their own bodies and merged their flesh with foreign objects. One sported tentacles instead of arms, and a few were hooked up to machines.

They cowered when she entered, hiding in corners and under tables. Like the Forsaken, they felt the soul-searching power of Ketala's terrible gaze, and they hid from her monstrous vengeance. The undead paladin looked around, locating each and every one of them with her eyes. They had done these experiments, had created these poor creatures. There would be no mercy. Not one of them could offer a plea that would justify what they had done.

Ketala slapped her blades together. Death had come.

She bolted forward, heading for several of the scientists who were huddled under an operating table. Her blades gleamed in the sickly candle light, and then slashed forward and became slick with red. Screams and other sounds of panic echoed through the chamber. Ketala whirled and saw that some of the experimenters were trying to leave. Her eyes narrowed, and she changed course, sprinting after them, ignoring the words they shouted her way. She heard nothing, saw nothing but justice. Her blades flit back and forth, and chunks of rotting green flesh went spinning to the ground. More screams. More hacks and slices and death. These were monsters. Horrible, disgusting monsters. They deserved to die- every last one of them!

She snarled, chasing after them when they tried to flee, deaf to their pleas for mercy. Her aura began to blaze hotter and hotter with her anger, until it was more fire than anything else, the holy energy receding considerably. That aura reached out and grabbed at those outside her reach, burning them, tossing them around. When she was done, not one had escaped. They- all of them- laid in tattered pieces strewn on the ground and smeared over the walls. Ketala stood in the middle of it all, breathing in and out heavily, her whole body shaking.

"Monsters," she said venomously, an expression of rage still twisting her mouth and hardening her eyes. Her flaming aura stabbed at her surroundings and vaporized a few scattered remains. "Monsters!" she snarled again, louder this time. The word reverberated off the cold stone walls and bounced back at her: "Monster… monster… monster…"

Ketala swallowed hard, looking up at those walls as if searching for something. Her hands clenched tightly around her sword hilts. "MONSTERS!" she shouted, and the words came back even louder that before, thrown back in her face. She grimaced and then dropped her head, defeated.

She had lived in this place and had stayed silent for so long. Was she any less to blame for what had happened within Naxxramas' walls? Her flaming aura wrapped around her, heating up the air in an uncomfortable manner, and she shook with anger and pain.

"Pleeaasee! Please, _no_!" The screams punctured through her drunken fury, piercing the fiery haze that threatened to consume her. Ketala blinked and lifted her head. Her flaming aura cooled somewhat, and white tendrils of holy light became visible once more. She strained her ears, uncertain if she had heard correctly.

"_Noo!_" Ketala blinked. The words were distant but still decipherable, deep in pitch but infantile in delivery, as if being shouted by a small child. They echoed from somewhere deeper in the Abomination Wing and pierced straight to the depths of her heart. Ketala swung around to stare in the direction of the pleas, fully alert and aware. "Stop!" the voice screamed. "Stop- no! _NO!_" She took a step forward, and then another and another, zoning in on those cries, letting them fill her, drive her.

_Someone needs my help?_ Her mind whispered, bewildered and yet hopeful. _Someone needs me…_ She bolted forward, pursuing the calls, searching for their origins. Undead lumbered into her path. She casually wove her blades through them, sent her fire after them, and above all never ceased to run. If someone needed her help, then she was not going to fail them.

"PLEASE!" the voice wailed miserably.

Ketala's mind shot forward, clawing past the Lich King's mental blocks, ignoring the agony that rippled through her as Ner'zhul sought to oppress her. She cast aside all the terrible images he strove to toss her way, and felt around, grasping, trying to find the thing whose screams echoed throughout the Abomination Wing.

And then quite suddenly, she found him. His mind was curled up on itself and crying helplessly. Slow, intense bursts of pain rocked against the edges of Ketala's consciousness like hammer blows; a weak ghost of a similar pain the frail little mind was now enduring. With every blow he cried out in fear and hurt, and beneath his agony she could feel a steadily growing rage, a desire to stop the pain by any means, to rend, to destroy, to break anything that dare try and harm him.

Ketala regarded him silently, baffled as to why such a mind would be in the Abomination wing. This was a child. A sentient, horribly abused child. She reached her mental presence forward and brushed softly against his mind. When he did not respond she touched him again, more insistently. His presence gave a small cry, and he huddled up further on himself. Ketala pulled back reflexively and eyed him, and it occurred to her that he might have been subjected to mental torments. Sympathy wafted from her mind to his, and he slowly turned his attention to her, confused by why she made no attempt to harm him. He was shaking; his mind was starting to fray at the edges, spreading out into a senseless mess of trauma. Ketala reached out to him again, radiating a sense of calm.

"_I heard you crying," _she said softly. _"What's wrong?"_

A particularly nasty blow of pain smashed into the poor thing, causing him to cry out both mentally and physically. His tortured screams were quite audible from where Ketala was located. _"They hurt me! Make them stop! Please, make them stop!"_

"_I'm far, but I'm coming."_

"_Help!"_the mind begged pathetically. _"Please- Help me- Save me!"_

"_I'm coming,"_ she murmured soothingly. _"Hold on. I'm coming. I'm coming."_

It was perhaps ironic that fate chose that precise moment to throw a locked door in Ketala's face.

Ketala grunted and rushed into another room. She skidded to a halt and blinked at the vast chamber ahead of her. A large staircase wound up one side of it and ended in a very large and sturdy door, with a massive bronze lock set its center. As was only proper, the door was guarded by a giant, unique, and very ugly undead monster.

It was built thick with muscle and fat, but sported no stitches or other signs of being sewn together. One of its arms had been replaced by a thick bronze gauntlet. The other had been shorn off at the wrist and capped with a bubble of green slime and a sharpened needle two feet in length.

Considerably more disturbing than its lack of hands was the fact that the monster also had no face. Instead, a great tube jutted forward out of the front of its head, spiraled around and through its body, and eventually plugged into its gut. Despite the fact that it was obviously blind, it seemed to know she was there, and began descending the stairs the instant she stepped into the chamber. The undead paladin grimaced in dismay and scraped her blades together nervously. _I have no time for this! _She hissed quietly to herself, looking for some way out of this battle. _That mind, that voice, I need to get to him quickly-_

"I hope you like my pet," came a candied voice. Ketala spun around and looked up. A small balcony jutted out from the side wall of the chamber, and a mage was perched on its ledge. Great steel belts were wrapped around his face, covering both of his eyes, and black slime dripped from between them. As far as Ketala could tell, he was blind- a useful handicap against her debilitating gaze. As the undead paladin watched, he lifted an apple to his mouth and took a bite out of it, and pondered its taste for a moment. "His name is Grobbulus," the mage said in an off-hand fashion. "The key to the door is on his person. You won't leave this room without killing him."

"Or I can just take him over and have him hand the key to me," Ketala said darkly.

The mage gave a rotten, toothy, juice-and-pulp-dripping smile at her words, and leaned further over the edge. "Try," he goaded.

Ketala blinked at this response and then turned towards the approaching Grobbulus. She reached forward, trying to find whatever tattered mind this monster possessed, so that she might draw it under her sheltering wing. Much to her dismay, she found nothing within the folds of Grobbulus's thick skull. He had no mind. He was just a puppet. Looking back up at the balcony, Ketala could guess the identity of the puppeteer. Rage threatened to cloud her face, but a pitiful cry from deeper in the Abomination Wing restored her focus and reason.

"Have him let me through," she demanded. The mage pursed his lips and then took another bite of the apple.

"Why should I?" he asked. Ketala took in a slow, steadying breath. She was about to respond when he suddenly spoke again: "You killed my peers because they made creatures like Grobbulus. And if you get through, you'll be all too happy to kill me."

Ketala frowned, but the persisting screams reminded her time was short. "I give you my word not to harm you if you let me through."

"Your word?" he asked, and he clicked his tongue against the inside of his mouth. "Useless."

"I keep my word. I am a paladin," she said icily, her anger getting the better of her.

At that, he gave a large, toothy grin. "Not for long," he answered forebodingly.

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't have time for this, or for you. I want only to get to the source of those screams. Let me through and I shall do you no harm!"

"Ahh…" he said, suddenly understanding the source of her ire. "Him. Brilliantly designed creature that one is… But I'm afraid I can't help you. If you are forced to defeat Grobbulus, you will have even less time to waste on me, and I'll be even safer. Unless, of course, you hunt me down just out of spite- but that wouldn't be a very paladin-ish thing to do, would it? No, no my dear. Better I obey my master and make every impediment to your journey. If you want to pass, you must kill my puppet, and quickly."

He gave a large and devious smile, and then vanished, leaving her alone with his monster. A long time ago, Ketala would have been intrigued by the nature of this undead mage, would have made a mental note to seek him out and better understand his abilities. But now she screamed in frustration and whirled on Grobbulus, her flaming aura intensifying. Anger, misery, and desperation guided her actions, and she ran full force for the monster, slicing at his arms with all her strength.

Grobbulus led with his bronze fist.

* * *

(Zangarmarsh)

Ember was intrigued. She had jumped upon yet another nether ray, determined to get in one last wild ride before the day ended. Much to her surprise, this nether ray had barely responded to the sudden pounce. It had grunted, shifted its weight, and gone back to eating. There was no racing, no italicized "zooming," nothing. The nether ray simply went about its business, as if being pounced upon by small, demonically possessed night elves was simply part of its daily routine.

Ember blinked and gave a slight bounce in the hopes that the ray would be spurred to action, but the creature just grumbled and flexed its wings, obviously unimpressed. The tranquil response triggered Ember's curiosity, and the little girl took some time to examine the creature she was sitting upon. It was a large beast - three times as large as any nether ray she'd seen yet. Its body was laced with ropey scars, and several chunks were missing from its wings. Great red eyes glowed from the depths of its jagged face, and its tails stretched out a good six feet behind it.

Ember lifted a clawed hand and rubbed her chin and throat thoughtfully for the first time in her life. This simple gesture was remarkable in that it had not come from Illidan, Nature, or even Archimonde (who had also rubbed his chin on occasion, but not quite in the same fashion, or for the same reasons), but rather from Furion, who occasionally stroked his beard while concentrating. The tauren elder took note of this, and considered that perhaps she was not as distant from the old druid as one might have imagined.

In any event, the little girl eyed the nether ray for a moment, and then bit down experimentally on its wing. More amused than irritated, the creature turned its head and nipped almost playfully at her face. Ember gave a big grin and released the wing. She spread her arms out over the breadth of the nether ray and gave it a big hug.

"I'll call you 'Nana,'" she decided. The nether ray made a harmless growling noise in response, and purred when she scratched the fleshy panels over its eyes.

* * *

(Naxxramas)

"_PLEASE!"_ the mind screamed, nearly on the verge of shattering. Ketala snarled, jumping backwards and clearing the punching motion of Grobbulus's needle by no more than a few inches. She skittered further and further from the monster and scraped her scimitars against each other angrily. Every one of her hairs was standing on end, and her stomach rolled and fluttered in anxiety. Her heartbeats shoved heavily against the inside of her chest, urging her on, screaming that she could not fail. In the corner of her vision, she could see the specter of Arthas grinning. His energy crashed down on her, jerking her further away from the mind she sought to save.

_He needs me. I don't have _time_ for this!_ _I have to get to him!_

She glared up at the mindless abomination lumbering towards her, poisonous gasses leaking from his filthy pores.

"_Tick, tock, tick, tock."_ Ketala's eyes widened as she realized the source of that voice: the specter. If she could hear his words again, her defenses were wearing thin against his mental assault. She took an unsteady step backwards, and his laughter rushed in on her, wrapped around her and shut out the majority of her world. _"Run, run, run, as fast as you can, little Ketala… You'll still never get there in time."_

"Stop it! Please- help me!"

The words were not Ketala's. They belonged to that agonized, childish voice, to the being that needed her aid. The voice was more urgent, more broken. He would not hold out much longer. He needed her _now_. She slapped her scimitars together again, and prepared herself to charge at the disgusting Grobbulus. She'd prove Arthas wrong, she'd get through in time, she'd-

_He's provoking me._ The realization fell upon her skull like a tone of bricks and she faltered, lowering her swords. The paladin looked to the lumbering abomination and then turned and bolted in the opposite direction. _"_Aero," she murmured, and flame left her scimitars to be replaced by blue gusts of air. Ketala glanced up at the ceiling. Ahead of her was the balcony that Grobbulus's undead mage had perched on just minutes ago. She bolted straight toward it, twirling her scimitars in little circles. She had to do this, had to get out of Grobbulus's range, just for a moment. She reached the wall at a full blown run and lifted a foot, setting it down horizontally on the cold stone. Her scimitars arced up and then down like the wings of a bird, and huge gusts of air spiraled around beneath her, propelling her vertically up the wall. Her swords whirled behind her, gathering up more energy. Another sweep of her blades sent her up to skim against the roof, and she landed with a loud clang (she _was_ in full plate after all) upon the balcony.

Ketala took a second to reorient herself and look around. The balcony had no door. It was a stone slab that jutted out from the wall and seemed to fold back on itself, as if to snuggle tightly against the wall from whence it came. As its former resident could apparently teleport, Ketala did not find this odd. Below her, Grobbulus attempted to hit her by shooting gobs of slime into the air. He was unsuccessful. Satisfied, Ketala leaned back against the far wall of the balcony, and then slowly closed her eyes. The first time Ketala had gone to Northrend, Nathanos had given her words of caution. He had warned her that no fight against Ner'zhul was a test of swords; rather, it would be a battle of willpower and cunning.

Now, in Naxxramas, Arthas was working furiously to repress her mental reach. That had to mean something. Taking his oppression as a clue, Ketala forced her senses forward again, wrapping her mind fiercely around the tormented being she sought to reach and protect. Immediately the mind reattached itself to her, begging and pleading for help. His thoughts were frayed and broken now, a clear indication that he did not have much time left.

Ketala could not yet reach him physically, but she could be with him mentally. There had to be something she could do for him at this range. Her mind dashed furiously through the possibilities. At last she tried to reach into his mind, to push away his perception of pain, but he was already on the verge of panic, and his brain was filled with chaotic whirls. Unable to find what mental functions were associated with his pain she had to abandon that course.

There had to be something else! Something! Anxiety began etching itself into her features. Her muscles tensed and her mouth moved into a grim line. Despite her soothing presence, she could feel him fracturing apart. The rage he had buried deep inside him was starting to surface, a volatile madness threatening to explode. But there had to be something! Some means of soothing him, of calming him down long enough to blot out his perception of pain. Before she dared to fight this "Grobbulus," before she dared to move on from where she was perched, she needed to make sure that this fragile mind she held would endure.

"I don't even know if I can block his pain," she murmured, her tone unusually strained. Panic was starting to seep into her own mind, and it was only further damaging him. She had to calm herself down. Had to calm him down. Had to try something. Had to-

"_Go to sleep now," _she suddenly murmured, the lullaby spilling out from the recesses of her brain, _"little baby; Lay down your head." _Memories began coalescing in the back of her skull: phrases and notes she'd overheard a lifetime ago, safe within Stormwind's walls; a tune she had heard repeated in so many places, always with slightly different words._ "Do not cry, love, I am lis'ning, Toss away all your dread."_

The mind quivered, reaching out to her, examining her. The next lines not only transferred from her mind to his, but also commandeered the use of her mouth, and began flooding the chamber around her,

"_Close your eyes and don't you cry now,  
"Baby safe in my arms.  
"I shall hold you, I shall shield you,  
"Keep you safe from all harm."_

The frail mind clung tightly to her, craving her protection and drinking in her words. His thoughts began to settle and relax. The pain he was in was terrible, but he had never heard music before. He had never heard such beautiful words or such loving tones. Overcome by them, he was able to ignore the pain, even if just for a moment. Relieved beyond measure, Ketala reached delicately into his mind searching for the part of him that felt pain.

"_Listen to my heartbeat, steady drumming by your ear;  
"Feel my arms encircle round you, nevermore, love, should you fear."_

Her senses alighted upon a battered and overused region of his pain, and it seemed to her that this part of him felt the piercing strikes of agony most clearly. Terrified that she might be wrong, but having little other choice, she closed her senses around that part of him, and carefully pushed it aside.

"_I will hold you tight against me, and will never let you go,  
"And if you fall I'll kiss your bruises, for I promise you that I'll be near."_

The mind shivered in surprise, and clung to her in fear. The "hammer blows" of pain seemed dimmer now, as if muffled by a thick curtain. Ketala leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes to slits.

"_I am here to protect you;_  
"_I will blanket you with love,"_

Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. In time with her heartbeat. Beat and breathe, and beat and breathe. Her eyelids fluttered lightly, her eyes starting to turn orange and yellow.

"_Dry your eyes and lean against me,_  
"_Can you hear the roosting of the doves?"_

Red began to swirl into her eyes, growing darker, and deeper, until it had blotted out all other colors.

"_In the distance, horse hooves rumble, and the night lark starts to sing;_  
"_Marshland frogs begin to bellow, clicking reeds in breeze do sway."_

Her eyes shut momentarily and then opened a bright red, their pupils contracted to tiny dots. When she grabbed the hilts of her swords, she was no longer acting consciously. Independent of her mind, her body drew the scimitars and then launched forward, hurtling meteorically off the ledge. Flames rippled down their length as they plunged through Grobbulus's obese form.

"_Towering oaks begin to grumble, as the world beneath them rocks;_  
"_And the dancing crickets chirrup and start to thrum a soft refrain."_

The elemental in Ketala danced around the wild punches and precise stabs of her enemy, cutting open slices all over his massive girth. Her swords put nicks in his metal tubes, spilling out ghastly fluids and causing him to flounder. He spit forward clouds of poison and explosion of green slime, but she would dive out of the line of fire and within seconds her twirling swords were taking more chunks out of his putrid hide. She danced forward and backward, her blades spinning around her, brilliant energy wafting from their sharp edges.

_"As the rain patters down around us,  
"And the wolf howls in the west,  
"Let the sounds of nature lull you,  
"Let them send you off to rest,"_

The pleading screams in the distance ceased. The little mind nestled itself into her comforting embrace, listening as she sent him memories of these sounds and the sensations they produced. Every new image and sound seemed to fascinate him, and Ketala realized that he had never felt the wind on his face or listened to trees creak. He had been born in Naxxramas, and he knew nothing of the world.

So much like her Vaiden…

The thought made her hold him even tighter, and spurred her body to even greater feats of speed and strength.

"_The sky is made of velvet, rich purples thread with black,_  
"_And the stars like ivory sugar drops are dancing round your head,"_

With an elegant motion, it was over. A scimitar ripped straight into a weakened portion of Grobbulus's tubing, and cut the massive pipeline in half. The creature gurgled, choked, wavered, and then finally fell, splashing down into a puddle of its own vile fluids. Ever pragmatic, the elemental put her blades through its head and chest before feeling over its cold bulk for the key it carried. Unable to find one among its meager possessions, she took her blades and hacked open its thick stomach.

A large bronze key tumbled out, and she swept it up and headed to the door, all in one fluid motion.

"_Oh the moon, she is a beauty, Mother Earth watching over you,_  
"_So you dry your eyes, now, little baby, and listen close to what I've said:"_

The heavy doors banged open, and the elemental continued her journey into the Abomination Wing. In the next chamber there were more undead scientists and more abominations. The former fled from her, and she sprinted past the latter. Mindless, her body continued onward. It passed through several great chambers, focused on its goal in a way no mere mortal could ever be.

"_Dear, I love you, I adore you,_  
"_Let my love be your light.  
_"_I will save you, I will keep you_  
"_I will guard you through the night."_

In one of the final chambers there was a hound with a great key about its neck. Unfazed the elemental charged. The elemental dashed under the monster's snapping jaws, tore the key from its neck, and then continued, dodging its attempts to rip her apart. A low doorway halted its progress, and still she ran, forging onward.

"_Close your eyes now,_

"_Hear my music,_

"_Lay down your head."_

At last she came to a great doorway, standing many feet high, and with a great lock also sent in its center. The elemental thrust her newest key into the lock and gave a turn. The doors opened. The mission was complete.

"_Little baby,_

"_I'll protect you,_

"_Sleep now in your bed…"_

Ketala gasped as both she and the elemental slammed back into one being. The shock caused her back to arch, and her eyes to roll back into her head. She took a sharp breath and then screamed as Ner'zhul's presence suddenly bore down on her, tearing her away from the mind she sought to protect. A deep exhaustion settled into the marrow of her bones, and she slipped to her knees, giving little cries of pain and confusion.

The undead paladin could feel something undead approaching her, but could not rise, could not even lift her head. She gasped over and over again, like a fish out of water, trying to regain control over herself. It was no use.

Ketala might have fallen then and there. Two wights had approached her, and were ready to bind her and drag her off to the Lich King in chains. She might have given in, but for the terrified scream that suddenly echoed through the room.

Both elemental and paladin knew that voice. Ketala jerked her head up, hazily looking across the room. Against the opposite wall, a hundred yards away, was a being. He was very tall, although his actual dimensions escaped her nauseated brain at the moment, and chained to a strange device. Every few seconds, a bolt of lightning was channeled through him, and he bucked and screamed in pain and fear. Her eyes widened at the sight, instincts shooting from the base of her skull to all her various muscles. She struggled to her feet, her whole body shaking with the effort.

"No-NO! Don't leave me! DON'T LEAVE ME! HELP ME! SAVE ME!" the electrocuted creature began to scream. He was looking at her- he could see her, and he knew exactly who she was.

_Needs me._

Two giant, ghoulish wights loomed over her, coming closer and closer, their fingers waggling in the air like grotesque worms, their jaws snapping noisly above her head.

_Needs. Me._

Ketala's hands tightened on her scimitars. "Pyro," she murmured. Flames burst up from their tips, wrapping around her in a brilliant red aura. She couldn't concentrate hard enough to direct her swords, so she put all her will and strength into that aura, and stretched it out. The flaming tendrils ripped through the air, snapping painfully at the two wraiths and keeping them at bay. Ketala bathed in their power, in her power, trying to recover. Splitting into her elemental and sentient halves had taken a lot out of her; the last time Ketala had done so, she had been fatigued for weeks afterward. This time, she didn't have weeks. She had to regain control over herself. Now.

"HELP ME! PLEASE!"

Necromancer Grygus Blackbone snorted at the electrocuted creature. The increased volume of his pleas indicated that he was quickly approaching the critical stage, and that his electric therapy was almost at its end. Grygus turned to a nearby machine and carefully turned up the voltage just a little more. The last time the creature had gotten to this stage, he'd suddenly broken free and calmed down again, with no rhyme or reason to it. Grygus wanted to make sure that didn't happen again.

"Wow. He's a screamer, isn't he? That's why I made my Grobbulus with his mouth all plugged up."

Grygus lifted his head to look in annoyance at the blind mage standing before him. "What is it you want Cheshire?" He asked with a low growl. "As you can see, I'm busy subduing my newest masterpiece. Something far greater than anything you've ever pieced together, I might add."

"I can see that," the blind mage answered with a large and devious smile- the smile that had earned him his moniker. "But have you noticed that the Lich King's stray paladin has wandered into your lab? She's causing quite a fuss too, I might add."

Grygus blinked and turned his head, and was surprised to see the undead woman standing at his doorstep, wreathed in an aura of flame. Both of his wights had gone to confront her, but neither appeared to be faring well. The necromancer cursed lightly, aware that he'd been embedded too deeply into his work to even notice the paladin. He'd almost missed the chance to capture her and return her to Arthas-

But then… "And why haven't you tried to capture her, Cheshire?" he turned to ask the mage, only to find that the elusive man was no longer there. Grygas Blackbone lifted a brow, but didn't let it get to him. After all, Cheshire was an exceptionally flighty creature, and his methods rarely made much sense. Putting a pipe right in the face of his creation, after all… Ludicrous! Grygus rolled up his sleeves and began to walk towards the female, the words of a spell forming on his lips.

* * *

(Zangarmarsh)

"Zul'vii! Zul'vii! Look what I've found!"

The half troll in question didn't know whether to sigh in relief or disappointment, she was so relieved to hear Ember's voice. Zul'vii had spent the better part of the day looking for the girl, and all her efforts had proven fruitless. She'd been wondering how she was going to explain to Furion that she'd lost his daughter in the middle of the Zangarmarsh.

In any event, Ember came crashing through the forest and hopped up to Zul'vii, almost wetting herself she was so excited.

"Look where?" the tired and confused troll asked in bewilderment. Ember blinked and looked first to her left, and then to her right, and then all the way behind her, before she realized that she and Zul'vii were alone.

"Oh, hold on!" she amended, and she turned and rushed back into the forest. Zul'vii blinked and lifted a brow at Ember's ensuing: "Come on, don't be shy! She won't hurt you!" After these entreaties didn't work, Ember tried something different. "She has some tasty marsh lichen dumplings in her pocket," she said, whereupon a giant nether ray suddenly bolted out of the forest and tackled the halftroll, and began to strip her of all marsh lichen dumplings.

"Ember?" Zul'vii inquired as she laid flat on her back with a large and very dangerous looking nether ray hovering above her. "Did we just find that pet you wanted?"

"I call her Nana!" the little girl answered happily.

"I see, I see," Zul'vii said understandingly. "Well alright, but a pet's a lot of work! You're going to have to gather all the marsh lichen we'll need to feed her, and you'll have to play with her all the time. _And_ you're going to have to keep her clean and presentable- I don't want to see any swamp scum caking up her tails."

"I will, Zul'vii, I promise!"

"Well, so long as you promise. Okay, Nana, welcome to the party."

The nether ray growled appreciatively. Zul'vii held very still out of a deep and integral desire to keep her fingers attached to her hands.

* * *

The Lullaby that Ketala sings for Thaddius is my own personal creation. I have created an MP3 of it, and have uploaded it to a generic file upload site. The URL for this site is in my profile, so anyone who wants to listen to the music, can. 


	14. The Subject of Family

Warning, Warning, this chapter contains almost 5 pages of TxJ. SHIELD YOUR EYES!

* * *

**_On the Subject of Family _**

* * *

Silithus

Jaina looked out across the sands, to the great gates of Ahn'Qiraj. Tonight, they did not seem so foreboding. Instead they seemed broken, defeated, breached. C'Thun was dead. The Emperors had been toppled. No more did the desert threaten Alliance or Horde. Perhaps now those mighty factions could turn their eyes to more dangerous threats, like Outland or Northrend.

On impulse, Jaina suddenly looked upward, and beheld the beautiful sky spilling out above her. Ten thousand, a hundred thousand, a million stars winked down at her, and a beautiful milky spiral of distant star clusters tumbled from horizon to horizon.

"Admiring the desert night?" The sorceress smiled as Thrall's heavy footsteps came up behind her, so close that she could feel his breath stirring her hair. She leaned backwards into him and he took the cue and wrapped his arms around her, holding her securely against his chest.

"It is a beautiful view," she admitted, draping her arms over his and absently stroking the back of his hand.

"One of many I have seen this night," he murmured dotingly, shifting one of his arms to tug away her purple hood. Her golden hair shone like pale wheat under the moonlight, and he lowered his head to place a few tender kisses in the blond waves.

"Indeed," the Lady Proudmoore agreed, tilting her head to the side and half closing her eyes in appreciation. "But I think that this one view stands out from the many others I have witnessed this day."

"Oh?" he inquired as he bathed his senses in the scent of lilacs and old paper.

"Yes," she decided. "Yes, you see this, scene doesn't have some of the other characteristics I've been enjoying. There are no beautiful blue eyes, no mane of rich black hair. And come to think of it, the stars have no posterior which I might admire."

"You were admiring? That is good," the orc said solemnly. "I had been wondering if my new armor made me look fat." His human companion broke out laughing almost immediately, and he could not help but follow several seconds later.

"I see," Jaina said when her laughter had subsided. She turned in his arms that she might look up to him, with a grin stretched broadly over her features. "And what do you make of my rear?"

He tapped his chin and made a show of looking her over to examine her frame. "It hasn't changed," he observed at last, a great smile slowly creeping over his features. "Your posterior has always been obscenely large."

"Lies!" she cried, half scowling half laughing. "My bottom is no larger than any other lady's bottom!"

"Mental note: All human nobles have generously proportioned daughters."

"And all orcs are nasty, pig-faced thugs!" she accused fondly, wrapping her arms quickly around his neck and planting a kiss full upon his mouth. His lips parted and he returned the kiss full force, nuzzling against her cheek and tracing the sides of his tusks lightly over the lines of her mouth. For a long moment, his gestures were extremely tender and sensual, moving in tandem with hers. Then he shifted focus and began to kiss along the lines of her chin, jaw, and throat.

Jaina closed her eyes and just enjoyed the sensation for a moment before she returned to kissing gently over his face. She kissed his cheek, around his eyes, over his nose and forehead and hairline, and finally she moved to his ear so that she might match the sensual attentions he was now administering to her collarbone.

The orc Warchief shuddered as he felt her focus on his left ear. She carefully pushed his black hair away, strand by strand, tickling his scalp and causing him to twitch. When she'd cleared his hair away she began to caress the tip, back, and surrounding hairline of the ear, first with her fingers and then with her kisses. He lifted a foot and set it down again, trying to work out the jitters that shot through him, and he had to pause in his own affections to deal with hers.

How or why his ears (Of all things, ears! What was he, an elf?) were so sensitive to this treatment, Thrall figured he would never know. The one thing he did finally understand was why Snowsong liked having her ears scratched so much. He took in a slow, deep breath, and then reached up to close his tent's door flap. In retrospect, he should have closed it earlier. Sometimes he wondered how he and Jaina had managed to hide their affection for so long-

The sorceress in question took in a breath and blew softly over his hairline, just behind his ear. Immediately the whole world exploded into nonsense, and rational thought up and hopped away. Thrall shivered terrifically, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He took a moment to steady himself, and then looked up at her from her shoulder, his dark blue eyes unreadable. She grinned back at him a little triumphantly, perhaps enjoying the fact that she could have such a profound effect on him. Her eyes were the bright cyan of tropical waters, her hair a waterfall of brilliant amber, and her lips were red and mischievous. There was something about her expression, her scent, her every attribute, something fascinating and wonderful. His arms tightened around her and he pressed his face into her neck and hair for a moment, his eyes closing.

_You are so beautiful. _

The Lady Proudmoore smiled, and rested her chin on his shoulder. "I love you, greenskin," she said affectionately. He grunted, and pulled his face back.

"And I you, human," he murmured, and he went back to kissing along her collarbone, and then her shoulder and arm. His fingers he ran tenderly over her underarm and side, a sensitive touch that produced shudders on _her_ part, now. As always, his gentleness amazed the human sorceress. No kiss, embrace, or touch was forceful to any extent of the word. He was a model of refinement and self control, paying utmost attention to make sure that not one of his gestures left behind the tiniest bruise or scratch.

Jaina kissed his ear and throat, kneading her palms soothingly into the muscles of his shoulder, and slowly began pulling his buckskin tunic aside. Thrall's quarters were divided into two sections- one for mission briefings and one for personal use. After a moment, the Warchief lifted her up and carried her gently to the latter. The sorceress blinked and laughed.

"I _can_ walk, you know."

"I don't believe you," he answered affectionately, kissing her all over the face, over her eye, temple, cheek, nose, lips, and chin. "You could break. I can't risk it."

"Oh please," she said laughingly, giving his shoulder a shove that teemed lightly with earthen energy. "Put me down, you oaf."

"I don't know…"

The sorceress rolled her eyes and then vanished with a Blink Teleportation spell, reappearing at the division between the rooms of the tent. "Honestly," she complained, "how _is_ it you can be so very clean? Look at this! Not a fur out of place, your boots all lined up with your armor composed on a rack, your pillows fluffed- its wrong, I tell you! Wrong on so many levels! It should be gritty, and messy, with bloodstains everywhere, and dirt, and maybe food swept under a rug!"

He grinned and came up beside her. "I _am_ the one who rides through battles decked in fur and metal and riding a wolf, swinging a giant mallet in the air. And yet… it's in your rooms that we find food under rugs…"

"It was only once! And a slice of cheese at that! How was I to find a thin slice of cheese under a rug?"

"Most people _pick up_ their rugs to _clean_ them, Miss Proudmoore," he lectured teasingly.

"What kind of warlord darns his own clothing? You are the _worst_ barbarian in the history of barbarians!" she said with mock exasperation, waving her arms in the air.

He tossed back his head and gave a great laugh, and then threw his arms around her and held her almost crushingly close. "And you are the worst noblewoman in the history of noblewomen," he growled affectionately, and she leaned contently into his chest, feeling the bristles of his ragged beard scraping lightly over the edge of her ear. "Tell me, what have you done with our child, that you are so willing to stay here and spend time with me?"

"I asked Daelin to take care of her for a few days," she answered matter-of-factly. The orc perked up and eyed her and the sorceress snorted at his expression. "You know as well as I do that he won't harm a hair on her head. I've been casting divination spells on them every hour or so. He took her out on his boat, told her stories, and taught her to fish. And he was _smiling_. Do you know how little that man smiles?"

Thrall took in a slow breath and nodded. "I trust you Jaina," he said after a moment, and he rubbed firmly over her back. "That time, when Kallah was nearly trampled by those kodos…"

"It's alright Thrall, it's in the past. I know you didn't mean for it to end up like that."

He shook his head and smiled weakly. "I threw up afterwards."

The sorceress blinked and her eyes widened. Thrall smiled a little more, and sat down at the edge of his great bed, pulling her down into his lap.

"I have known various degrees of fear, concern, and worry. But never have I been so utterly terrified, as I was that day. I was convinced for a moment that she was going to die. That I would end up carrying her broken body back to you." The great orc shuddered. "I am not accustomed to feeling so helpless or vulnerable. I am not even comfortable with talking about it. But I suppose some of my worry stems from that, from a lingering paranoia, a fear that I have left her in danger by doing nothing."

Jaina nodded understandingly and gently rubbed her hand over his cheek and through his hair. "You are a perfectly good father, Thrall. But I think we may be protecting Kallah too well. She had to ask Daelin what orcs and humans were."

He lifted a brow and smiled lightly. "But on the other hand," the Warchief observed, "is it so terrible that she does not see a difference between them?"

"No," Jaina admitted. "But one day she will have to live in the real world."

"Ah. _That_ terrible place." He smiled and began kissing gently over the base of her neck and along her shoulder. "In that case, I suppose having allies and mentors like Daelin Proudmoore will help her. But then I should get to introduce her to Drek'Thar."

Jaina smirked and reached down to pull off her boots. "Fair trade," she agreed. "Maybe if Kallah can control lightning, we won't have to worry about her if she goes out on anyone's rooftop anymore…"

Thrall chuckled and carefully began working the ties of her blouse. "True, true. She could end up blowing herself up with elemental energy, however…"

"Thrall, I'm a mage. Blowing oneself up with elemental energy is an occupational hazard I'm intimately familiar with. I'll understand."

"You'd kill me," he said with a toothy grin, blue eyes merry.

"I would," she amended without the slightest hesitance, and she moved her mouth passionately to his.

Behind their tent and as silent as the darkness, Nathanos found this conversation quite fascinating. It was occupying him while he waited for dawn; waited for the teleportation spell that would send him home. It _was_ occupying him, that is, until Jaina dropped a powerful silence spell on the inside of the tent.

Rather than being irritated at the loss of his entertainment (he _had_ been required to sneak past a bothersome amount of guards to get there), Nathanos grinned, for he realized exactly _why_ the sorceress would need to cast such a spell. Deprived of his leisure activity, but filled with interesting and slightly lewd things to ponder, Nathanos just headed back to his temporary residence. He wondered briefly if he should provoke one of Thrall's advisors to charge headlong into the warchief's tent, but then dismissed the thought.

After all Jaina _was_ the only one who could get him back to the Undercity.

* * *

Naxxramas

Ketala breathed in deep and closed her eyes, trying to get her body to recover. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying to get her sense of balance back, and almost falling over a few times. Her arms flexed, bringing her blades slowly through the air.

_Come on. Come on. He's just a clear run away. He needs me now. I have to move._

She took one step forward, and then another. In her exhaustion, she did not notice that a necromancer had come within range of her, blue energy whirling around his hands. All her limited energy was focused on the poor electrocuted creature in the back of the room. She did not feel the rush of cold as a massive ice spell rocketed towards her, intent on banishing her aura and freezing her solid. Instead she just took another step forward, moving straight into the spell's trajectory…

As she moved, her foot caught upon the edge of a stone in the cobbled floor. With her mind on par with that of a raving drunk's, she lacked the coordination necessary to remain upright, and so tripped and pitched forward onto her face. As she fell, the magical bolt rocketed forward, passing within an inch of her back, freezing strands of her black hair as it went. Ketala landed on the ground with a grunt. The icy spell continued onward, and smashed straight into one of the wraiths. It gave a muffled "Eep!" before thick walls of ice splashed around it, sealing it in a crystalline prison.

Somewhere in the vast chamber, the blind mage Cheshire began to howl with laughter. Necromancer Grygus Blackbone, who had thrown the icy spell at Ketala, stared at her first in disbelief and then in irritation. He growled and pushed up his sleeves further, and began the incantation for another spell.

Ketala groaned and tried to push herself off the floor. When this failed she just gazed in confusion at the angry necromancer. She saw the spell forming in his hands, and recognized that she was failing in her self-appointed mission. _Get up,_ her brain coaxed. _Do something! _Ketala tried; her body did not respond.

"_Tick tock, tick tock,"_ came the silky voice of the Lich King's malicious specter. Ketala closed her eyes tightly, tried to get up, to roll away, to throw her sword, to do anything!

_GET UP!_

She couldn't. There, in that terrible place, Ketala acknowledged that she had failed. In trying to protect the poor electrocuted being at the end of the room, she had given too much of herself. Now she had not only failed him, but herself as well. She would be brought back to Ner'zhul in chains. And there she'd be broken, and this poor creature would descend into madness, and there was nothing, _nothing_, she could do. She closed her eyes.

"_Get up," _came a sharp voice, putrid and rotting in her mind's eye.

_I can't,_ she thought back feebly, too dazed to even wonder who was talking to her or why.

"_No. But you **will**_. _You are the paladin daughter of a lich. Your soul was purified by the touch of corruption. You were infused with the heartless fury of the elements and yet became the angel of compassion. You are the messiah of the damned. Against all odds, against any foolish notions you have of fate, you must **somehow** find a way! GET. UP." _The mental voice slammed into her, a rush of chaotic whirls and dark pain.

Ketala cried out, lurching weakly to her hands and knees. She lifted her head, and her eyes went wide as she saw a massive ice spell flying straight towards her. The undead woman jerked backwards, bringing up her hands defensively in front of her face, and screamed out in instinctive supplication, "LIGHT!"

As it always had, the Light answered. There was a burst of holy energy as a Divine Shield rippled comfortingly over Ketala, a golden sanctuary through which nothing could pass. The necromancer's frost spell slammed head on into the protective shield, and was absorbed into the holy radiance without producing so much as an icicle. At that point, Necromancer Grygus Blackbone began cursing, and Cheshire the blind mage nearly died (and probably would have, had he not already been dead) of laughter, because nothing in the world was more aggravating then a near-dead paladin utilizing the infamous holy "bubble."

Ketala shuddered and sat back unsteadily on her heels, her golden shield wrapped tightly around her. Quite suddenly her head was clearer and her senses sharpened. When she willed her limbs to move, they obeyed. She _did_ have a throbbing headache, and still felt a little winded, but for the most part her Divine Shield had cleansed her of whatever sickness she had been suffering.

Her fragmented memories of the last few minutes began to coalesce. She took stock of the furious necromancer, the frozen wight, the unfrozen wight, a strange but familiar laughing echoing through the room, and, of course, the screams of the thing she fought to save.

The screams… It occurred to her that he was giving a pathetic wail of, "NOOO!" For a moment, it must have looked like she was going to be frozen in place by that ice spell. Ice spell.

Ketala's eyes riveted on the necromancer, and she slowly rose to her feet. This time, they agreed to support her weight. She shifted for a moment, letting her sense of balance reorient herself, her baleful glare concentrated on the angry spellcaster in front of her. "Your experiment," she said slowly, "doesn't seem to like you…"

Grygus Blackbone's eyes narrowed and another spell began to form in his hands. Still feeling himself at the advantage, and wanting to dishearten the undead paladin with his gloating, Gygus taunted, "You are lucky he is still undisciplined, Paladin, or you would already be kneeling at the Lich King's feet.

Ketala smiled strangely. "You just admitted he's yours."

Grygus blinked. Ketala launched towards him, sprinting full speed for his position. Her scimitars scraped together, producing a dreadfully uncomfortable screeching noise. Elemental energy coursed through her, cold and unyielding instead of fiery and enraged. Her aura of flame vanished all together.

The necromancer snorted at her seemingly fool-hardy charge. A final blast of cold magic shot forward from his hands. There was no way she could dodge in time, and her Divine Shield was spent. It was over. He'd won. She-

The icy blast reached Ketala and twined gently up her arms, called inward to the center of her being like a magnet. The energy dissolved into her, became one with her, and then ricocheted away with a burst of blue light. The icy bolt spiraled madly through the air before impacting with the second wight. The undead creature managed to let out a strangled howl before it too was frozen solid.

Grygus had only a few seconds to comprehend his folly, but he did so quite admirably. It occurred to the necromancer that he had erred. Ketala had seen the nature of his last two spells, and had guessed that he would again use something composed of ice. She had brought herself in tune with that element, and had channeled the bolt through her, as surely as an entity composed entirely of frost would have. Had Grygus cast any other spell, be it a curse, a bolt of fire, or a polluted shadow, he would have been able to keep her at bay.

But he hadn't.

Ketala's scimitars cut like scissors through his midsection. As he fell backwards to the ground, his vision beginning to cloud, he was treated to the sight of his disembodied legs still standing up straight and rigid, several feet away. Then the world went black.

Ketala lifted a hand and called out again to the Light. It felt good to channel the holy energy, and she felt many broken and injured parts of her spirit start to mend. For a moment she simply held the holy energy close, letting it seep into her every pore. Then she clenched her hand into a fist, and holy flame smashed down onto the necromancer's body. And it came down again and again, burning away at him until no part of his corpse could ever be recovered. He was no Grobbulus, no massive titan of flesh and power. He was just a man, and he burned quickly.

A heartrending cry for help jerked her back to the present, and she turned her head towards the far end of the room. There stood the target of her rescue attempt, a being she saw clearly for the first time. At the sight of him she stood a little straight in surprise, and stared. Then the urgency of the situation came back to her, spurring her towards him at a run.

He was huge. From the soles of his feet to the top of his head, he measured some ridiculous height- perhaps thirty feet. Six or seven men would have had to stand vertically on each others' shoulders for the top one to look him in the eye. He bore the stitches of an undead construct- an abomination- but there was little resemblance between him and the grotesque beasts lumbering around the rest of the wing.

Abominations were mismatched things- collections of body parts crudely thrown together and bombed with necromantic energy. Their flesh sagged from their bones and their organs spilled out through the cracks. Their heads were grossly misshapen, their bulk was unsightly, their legs short and stubby, and they typically sported three or more arms. Rather than walk, they waddled after their prey, their unsightly bulk tumbling all over the place.

The tormented creature before Ketala was nothing at all like a normal abomination. He was an elegant and streamlined thing, built after the fashion of a sturdy human. There was no fatty gut bloated with vile gasses and fluids. Abdominal muscles were solid and compact; he was slender, even. The bulk of his weight was instead carried in abnormally large shoulders and within a deep and powerful chest. Furthermore, his legs were solid and strong, made not for shuffling but for taking long, powerful strides..

No, this thing was no simple abomination, no meat shield created for the sole purpose of soaking damage. He was sculpted like brawler or even a warrior. Here was a creature meant to stand at the right hand of a general, and lead an army in a mighty charge, the earth quaking under him with every step-

But now came the matter of freeing this unusual being…

The room Ketala found herself in was fairly simple in structure. There was a short flat area that ended in a lake of green slime. Two staircases led out over the slime and ended in raised platforms that flanked the sides of the room. Across the lake and between the platforms was a sort of island. Standing against a mighty pillar in the center of the island was her target. Chains were wrapped generously around his body, and thick metal plates held him securely in place. Four inverted pillars hung down from the ceiling and ended some distance above the raised platforms. All four were tipped with strange metal nodes from which lightning would emit and slam brutally into the undead creature's helpless form.

Judging by the breadth of the light bolts and the thundering booms they generated, he was more than a little resistant to electricity.

Ketala eyed the upper platforms and then blinked as she noticed a hulking metal contraption atop one. She flit quickly up the corresponding staircase, and skidded to a halt as she reached the strange machine. It was covered from top to bottom in all kinds of levers and buttons. On one of its panels was an array of at least one hundred switches and sliders, all of which were uniform gray. There were a good twenty dials, all with respective gauges, and none of which sported any numbers or words. A closer look revealed that the right-most gauge remained at a constant level. Every time a lightning bolt struck, the other gauges would fly up to the same position as the first, and then settle back down again.

Ketala blinked and pondered hard, looking between the lightning generators and the machine. Lightning generators. Machine. Electric bolts. Gauges. After a moment, the undead paladin nodded. Having come to a decision about her course of action, Ketala backed up a safe distance from the machine. She then used her scimitars to conjure a giant flaming rock with which she began to beat the machine over and over again. With explosions. And magma.

The machine buzzed and beeped, and gave what any science fiction fan would have to call a "powering down" noise- a long slide from high, buzzing tones to deep, repressed ones. Above her the lightning nodes sputtered and crackled, and finally went still, changing from a bright blue color to somber ebony.

Down on the island, the creature went absolutely berserk. He screamed and began to thrash and toss about wildly, causing his chains to clink and the metal bands to groan. For a moment, Ketala was worried she had had made some kind of horrible mistake. Muscles kept helpless by electrical shocks began to bulge and strain. Metal whined, moaned, and then split open as one arm ripped free of its restraints. There were more snaps as first his chest, and then the rest of his body followed, and he staggered haphazardly away from his prison, the ground rumbling with his awesome weight.

It didn't look as though he had walked on his own for a long time. He lifted a foot and set it down improperly, and went sprawling to the ground with a mighty thud. Overwhelmed and still shaking from the electric strikes, he could do little more than crawl forward a few steps, desperate to be away from the confining pillars.

Having established the basic ground rules for dealing with rebellious computers, Ketala gauged the distance to the island and then jumped. She landed with a considerably less impressive thud. The undead paladin straightened herself and then looked over at the poor creature. He'd given up crawling and was now huddling in one spot, pulling his limbs inward and hugging low to the ground like a sorely frightened child.

She tilted her head to the side and frowned in thought, uncertain what to do with him now that he was safe and all sense of urgency had passed. Judging by how he panted and whimpered, he needed a moment or two to recover, and so she took some time to better examine the strange being she had saved.

Where his ribs protruded slightly through his sides, she could see that the bone had been replaced by bars of metal. Upon his feet were thick, metal boots that appeared to be anchored to his knees by giant bolts. On both his arms he wore strange gloves that stretched halfway up his forearm and bore sharp, protective plates along their length. Thick leather bands were wrapped around his waist and legs, most likely used to help support his weight before his construction had been completed, but which also served to keep him decently clothed.

After a moment, the paladin took in a deep breath and then carefully walked up to his side. Still lost in his own little world, he shifted his weight, lost his balance, and slipped slightly towards her. The movement was completely innocuous, but it nearly resulted in him falling on her, an event which would have likely been fatal. Ketala stumbled quickly back from him, and looked at where his gauntlets had accidentally torn large chunks out of the stone floor when he'd caught himself from falling any further.

She looked back up at him, suddenly very respectful of his immense strength and weight. Ordinarily, Ketala would have immediately bounded up to an undead monster and smothered it in a hug, but this situation would require a gentler approach. If this giant was startled by her and tried to "push" her away, she'd probably go flying headlong into the nearest wall.

Ketala approached him again, but this time from a wider angle, so that he might see her coming. He was kneeling on all fours with his head lowered, his forehead almost touching the ground. His face, or what she could see of it, was very humanoid. Only two features strayed from the fairly human norm. The first was that someone had thought to make him more intimidating by giving him a thick, metal lower jaw. The second was that a broad scar was plastered over the side of his head where someone had drilled through his skull.

Unfortunately, her attempts to let him see her coming were nullified by the fact that his eyes were squeezed tightly closed. Aside from throwing a rock at him, she couldn't really rectify this, so she simply walked up in front of his face, removed her helmet and tethered it to her side, and paused a moment to collect her thoughts.

"Hello," she said at last.

He jerked his head up immediately and looked straight at her, brilliant green eyes meeting hers. Surprised by her proximity, and uncertain of her intentions, he jerked back a few inches. Ketala lifted a brow and smiled slightly.

"Hello," she said again.

He fidgeted hesitantly, and then mumbled a small, "Hello." He had the slightest lisp due to his rigid lower jaw, and his voice rumbled like a blast furnace. The timidity in his voice sounded absolutely bizarre coming from his enormous mouth.

"Come now," she said a little laughingly. "I go through all that to set you free, and now you're afraid of me, too?"

His eyes widened a bit and he quivered, not knowing how to respond. The memory of his agony was still fresh in his mind, and it was blurring out other thoughts, confusing him and causing him to breathe faster and faster.

"Oh, no, no, no," Ketala murmured quickly, lifting her hands just a bit, and keeping them close to her so as not to frighten him. "It's okay… It's okay… You aren't doing anything wrong. It's okay… Shhh…"

He swallowed hard, his breathing settling a bit but still coming faster than normal. "You-" he began timidly, "you were in my head… I… I heard…"

She nodded considerably, so that he would be certain of the admission. "I told you I would find you," she said gently. "I told you I'd come to you. I'm just sorry I took so long." A calming smile spread over her face again. "My name is Ketala. Who are you?"

Somewhat emboldened, and recalling more of what had happened within the last hour, he answered, "Called… Thaddius."

"Thaddius," the paladin repeated thoughtfully. "That's a handsome name. And it suits you. May I come closer, Thaddius?"

"You- you won't… hurt…?"

"I won't," she promised. "I will be very, very nice."

Those green eyes looked at her a moment in wonder, and then he gave a meek little "Okay." Ketala nodded and took slow, short, even steps in his direction. As she approached his face, his eyes tried to follow her and ended up crossing when she came too close. Thaddius blinked rapidly to dispel the uncomfortable sensation, and then turned his head slightly to the side to view her with just one eye. Ketala gave a silent giggle, and set a hand cautiously upon his metal jaw. The surface was smooth and well polished, without the slightest bit of rust. The undead woman let her hand linger against the jaw for a moment, and when Thaddius didn't pull away she rested her palm against his cheek instead.

His skin had the texture of rigid leather, and was warm as if heated by some internal furnace. Ketala blinked, to some extent surprised by his temperature, but she attributed it to the lightning strikes he had so recently received. She paused a moment to see if he would give some negative response to her touch, and when none was forthcoming she stroked over the breadth of his cheek. He looked in confusion at her for a long moment, before his eyelids drooped like those of a cat getting its chin scratched.

"Nice," he mumbled appreciatively.

Ketala nodded and gently traced over the side of his face. When she finished her examination, she smiled and patted his cheek. "I do not know how anyone could hurt you; you are so pretty with your handsome face and your big green eyes," she said, and she stood on her toes and placed a kiss on his brow.

Much to her surprise, Thaddius blushed innocently at the praise, his cheeks turning a dull maroon color. The paladin had around three seconds to contemplate how a person without a pulse could blush. Then the titanic abomination suddenly lunged forward to throw his arms around her in a massive hug. Time seemed to slow. Realizing she was about to become a thoroughly mashed pancake, Ketala jerked backwards, lifted her arms defensively around her, and in desperation shouted, "Thaddius, STOP, NO!"

His arms changed trajectory and his fingers tore huge grooves into the stonework as twenty-four tons of exuberant undead came skidding to a halt. The vibrations from him hitting the ground in such a way caused Ketala to stumble and fall to her rear. He blinked down at her, confused and hurt, and he backed up a pace, wondering what it was that he had done wrong.

Realizing that she had not been crushed to death by a very well-meaning but horrifically strong abomination, Ketala dropped her hands and let out the breath she had been holding. "Okay," she said slowly. "It's okay. I know you were trying to hug me, but you can't do it like _that_."

"Wh-why?" he asked, and he sounded like he might cry.

"Let me explain," she said slowly, and she pushed herself to her feet and dusted off her pants. "Do you see where your hands hit the ground? Do you see how you ripped large chunks out of the stone?" He turned his eyes to his fingers and lifted one hand. The scores he had left behind were clearly visible, and his gloved palm was slightly dusty. "Think about this. What if you'd actually hugged me, instead of just stopping yourself with that stone? I'd be dead."

Horrified by this revelation, he pushed himself backwards another pace.

"Wait, wait," she commanded gently, lifting her hands in a reassuring manner. "Just listen. I'm not yelling at you. Just be calm, and listen; this is something you need to understand. I am very, very, very small. It is extremely easy for you to hurt me without meaning to. So when you're near me, you have to be careful, and do things a certain way."

"Don't want to hurt-!"

"You won't," she assured him. "We just have to teach you to be gentle when you're moving. You would like that, wouldn't you? To be able to hug someone without hurting them, right?"

He hesitated, and then nodded slowly.

"Alright then. Get up on your knees, like this," she said, and she demonstrated by kneeling in the proper position. He took a close look at her, and then slowly shifted, paying close attention to each and every one of his limbs. When he was satisfied, he looked back to her for further instruction. "Good. Now, the next movement you have to do slowly, and you have to make sure you don't whack me in the process. Take one of your hands, and hold it out close to the ground in front of you, palm up, like this," and she showed him. He looked worriedly at one of his hands, and then carefully, painstakingly, tediously, he moved his hand forward, his fingers slightly curled and his palm facing up.

Ketala smiled a bit at his snail's pace, but she supposed it was better than being flattened. "Good, now just stay there for a second and let me do this part," she instructed, and she stood up and came over to his hand, and pulled herself up between his fingers and into his palm. He blinked in surprise and concern and his fingers twitched lightly, subconsciously trying to help her up. The paladin got her knees back under her, and looked back up at him. "Okay. Now bring the side of your hand up to your chest, like this. Make sure the palm stays facing up. Good," she praised as he began to do so. "Alright, now this is the hardest step. Lift your other hand and move it to sort of wrap around me and hold me against you like you would in a hug. Just be careful! Make sure you sort of keep your hand cupped, don't flatten it out or anything."

Had he still possessed a lower lip, he surely would have bitten it. There was a look of profound concentration on his face as he stretched his limited fine motor skills to their breaking points. Thaddius lifted his other hand beside the first, and held it parallel with her body. Then he carefully inched it closer to her, under the gloved material was touching her. These little movements were difficult for him, and so ended up coarse and unintentionally forceful. His fingers cupped carefully around her, and he pressed her as gently as he possibly could against him.

Ketala breathed an audible sigh of relief, and moved to hug him back. As she did so she felt against her cheek and body a very peculiar sound, deep like a bass drum, and low enough to be physically detectable.

Heartbeat. He had a heartbeat. At that moment, his fit of hyperventilation, his blushing, his warmth, everything made far more sense. Thaddius was not actually undead. She looked up at his face in bafflement, and tilted her head to the side. _You're alive?_ she wondered mentally. _But how? You are very obviously a newly created abomination. How can you be alive?_

Unaware of her train of thoughts, Thaddius looked at her quietly a long moment before finally remembering something he'd been wanting to say. "Thank you," he murmured.

Ketala docked her head to the side. "For what?" she inquired.

"For saving me," he elaborated slowly. "No one… …no one has ever helped me before…" The paladin's expression turned from curiosity to a soft hybrid of sympathy and warmth.

"This is a nice hug," she reflected. "A nice, non-Ketala-flattening, pleasant hug. You should be proud to be the giver of hugs like this." This seemed to cheer him up, and he pulled her back from his chest so that he might better look at her. Something seemed to be puzzling him, and he at last put it to words.

"Are you my mother?" he asked.

Ketala blinked and laughed. Despite the fact that she was usually content with undead calling her "mother," she felt that this particular situation deserved some distinction from the norm. "No, I don't think I'm your mother," she reflected, "but I could be your sister."

"Sister…" he said, tasting the words and trying to call up its definition from fragmented memories of a life long gone. He smiled lightly and suddenly lifted her up to his face. In an amazing display of tactical maneuvering, he managed to kiss her on the top of the head without biting any of her extremities off or knocking her over with his ridiculous metal jaw. Ketala blinked, and looked at him in surprise. A rush of tingling warmth spread through her, and she found that a smile had overtaken the whole of her face.

A crash in the distance brought her suddenly ended the moment. Ketala looked back to the great doors that led out of the chamber and frowned as she heard the bellows of abominations getting closer and closer. Kel'Thuzad's minions were still coming for her. All of Naxxramas was converging on her position, armed and ready to recapture her. She was still on a mission to destroy as much of his followers as possible; a mission that would likely culminate in her defeat. Her position was as desperate now as it was an hour past, when she had last spoke to Mograine.

Ketala looked back up at Thaddius whose green eyes watched her so trustingly. She took in a slow breath. "Brother, I've a lot to tell you in a very short span of time," she said in a solemn voice, "so I need you to listen. We're both in great danger."

* * *

The Northern Shore of Dustwallow Marsh

" Worms!"

Daelin eyed Kallah with a flash of amusement and nodded. "Yes," he agreed. " Worms."

"What do you have worms for?" she asked in bewilderment.

"These fish like to eat worms," he explained as he set the bucket of fish bait down. He reached inside and selected a worm, pulling it gently from the dark brown earth. Then he laid his fishing pole against his thigh and showed her the hook. "You catch a fish by convincing the creature to bite down on this sharp hook. If the fish bites down hard enough, it will become trapped on the hook, and you will be able to pull it out of the water. In order to get the fish to bite down, you have to put fish food on the end of the hook. In this case, the fish food we're using is worms."

Daelin baited the hook and almost broke out laughing at Kallah's gasp of horror. "Then you drop the hook in the water and wait. And while you're waiting you talk to someone, or think about things." He tossed the hook into the water and sat back on his dock. "And that's how you catch a fish." Kallah came up to him and peered over the water, looking down at where the line disappeared into the murky depths. After a moment, she looked back to her grandfather and frowned.

"Grandpa? Do you have a fishing pole for me, too?"

The Admiral blinked and looked at her in surprise, as if having totally forgotten that she didn't own a pole. He pondered for a moment, and then offered his own pole to her. "Hold this for a minute. I'll see what I have."

Kallah looked at the beautiful fishing pole in surprise and took it with exquisite care. It was a lovely thing, carved, painted, varnished; personalized and tended to in every way a fishing pole could be. A sense of pride welled up in her that she had been entrusted with such an artifact, and she gripped it a little tighter and sat down beside the edge, staring intently at where the line disappeared in the water. Daelin smiled and went back to where their sloop was docked to look through his spare hooks and fishing wire. "And Kallah?" he called back to her. The little girl turned in her seat to look at him. "Don't drop it if you feel something-"

Just then, "something_"_ tugged down hard on the end of the pole. Kallah eeped and released the pole in surprise. It landed with a splash, and disappeared into the murky water as the weight of its mechanical reel tugged it downward.

Daelin closed his eyes and sighed, but figured that he should have expected something like that to happen. Jaina had lost one of his fishing poles in the same exact fashion when she was a little girl.

Kallah winced at her grandfather's sigh. She looked down regretfully at the brackish water. Truly she had not meant to let go of the pole. The tug had surprised her! Although now that she thought about it, she realized that a fish had probably caused the tug. A blush crept over her face at her ineptitude. And her grandpa! Oh she'd ruined that too! He had been acting really nice lately, and now he'd be all grumpy again.

Kallah gave a crestfallen sigh at all the repercussions of her negligence, and she stared down at her feet. _Grandpa is probably so mad._ Then, quite suddenly, an ingenious idea came to her, and she sat a little straighter. The fishing pole had been heavy, and had probably sunk right to the bottom. Surely it was not that far down… all she had to do was reach in and find it!

Inspired, the little girl uncrossed her legs and leaned over the water, reaching down into its depths. She felt around and was disappointed to find she couldn't feel the bottom. But then, the water was probably deeper than her koi pond back home. She'd just have to reach a little farther.

Daelin was in the progress of putting together a makeshift fishing pole for himself when he heard another "eep", and another small but much more foreboding splash. His head jerked up and he quickly looked behind him.

No Kallah.

Nor did he hear any more splashes.

He was already up and bolting for the side of the dock before his brain consciously registered that Kallah couldn't swim.

When he reached the edge of the dock, he didn't bother slowing down or jumping in feet first. He knew these waters well- had fished in them for the last few years. He had supported his dock between two large rocks, but the water between them, where Kallah had fallen, was a good hundred feet deep. When Daelin reached the end of the dock, he dove straight down into the water, and disappeared with a splash.

Then the dockside was quiet save for the buzzing of insects and the faint croak of distant bullfrogs. Tress rustled gently in an ocean breeze. Trickles of steam rose up from the water in the dim light of the morning. Somewhere in the distance a Murk Thresher bellowed.

A black fly landed upon the very edge of the dock, and began to dine upon the swamp scum that lingered there.

Quiet and still.

The surface ruptured explosively, water splashing in great arcs. A humanoid hand slapped down on the wood of the dock with a wet thud, the nails curling in and digging ruts out of the slimy material. Simultaneously, a very wet and scum-covered Daelin Proudmoore heaved himself out of the water, dragging a small child after him, hauling her out of the water and getting her on top of the dock as quickly as possible.

She was limp, and sprawled in a messy heap when he received her. Operating on pure instinct and adrenaline, Daelin covered her nose, took in a breath of air, leaned over, and without hesitance tried to force the life-giving oxygen into her lungs.

Beneath his hands, she stirred, squirmed, and then convulsed. He released her and she jerked to her side and began choking and retching up water, her whole body shaking violently as it did so. When she finished she collapsed in a heap, whimpering softly, her eyes closed tightly.

The Admiral Proudmoore let out a long, relieved sigh. A smile twisted on his face, and that smile slowly developed into a soft chuckle. Kallah blinked and opened her eyes, looking blearily over at her Grandfather. The undead man just marveled at her, shaking his head back and forward with a warm smile on his face. "Didn't expect it to be that deep, did you?"

Kallah winced, and blushed. Daelin chuckled and reached over, gently pulling some of the muck out of her hair. "It's alright. There, it's alright," he smiled and gently picked her up and set her on her feet. "I'm not mad. Well, not with you, anyway. I _am_ going to have to have a long talk with your mother about not teaching you to swim…"

"I'm sorry, Grandpa," she mumbled. "I just wanted to get your fishing pole back…"

"Yes, well, I have other fishing poles. But I only have one granddaughter. So if you find yourself overcome with the urge to jump back in the water, please resist," he said in amusement, wiping mud from her face with a handkerchief. Daelin's own clothes were in a much better state due to Jaina's protective magic. Not only was he dry, but he was still quite clean. The little girl shivered in the light breeze, but her face brightened a bit. "There you go. Now, these soaked clothes won't do at all. Come, let's see if I have an extra shirt or something on the sloop," he continued gently, and he stood and took her hand and carefully led her back to the boat.

Kallah was overwhelmed by this very gentle and un-grumbly attention, and looked up at her grandfather in bafflement. "Grandpa?" she asked. "Why aren't your clothes dirty or wet?"

"Because your mother cast protective magic on them."

"Oh. Grandpa? Why didn't your hat come off?"

Daelin looked at her and laughed, reaching up to tip the hat. "It's enchanted. It won't come off unless the wearer takes it off."

"You enchanted your hat to keep it from falling off?" she asked in bewilderment.

"Some things are too important to leave to chance, Kallah," he answered solemnly. "A hat is a terrible thing to waste."

"Oh. I think your hat is the best hat I have ever seen," she offered experimentally.

"… I see." He thought for a moment, and then pulled the hat off and plopped it down on her head. Kallah blinked and looked up at him in surprise. "There. Now you have also been gifted by the blessing of the Great Hat. I'll warn you though. You lost my fishing pole; if you lose my hat, I shall have to kill you." She blinked, and then a smile worked its way slowly over her face.

"But it's enchanted to stay on! How could I lose it?"

"Kallah, I've the notion you could lose your own shadow if left unsupervised long enough."

"_Grand_pa!"

* * *

P.S. **YAARRRGG!** Review or I'll kill off your favorite characters! WITH AN AXE! 


	15. Plans

_**I LIVE!**_

Well, it's been a good 3 months since I last updated Truae. I apologize for all of this! Midterms, Finals, and trying to work on so many other things at once really got to me. I'm currently trying to work on my novel, but I have trouble setting anything down on paper. You know how it is with novels- you sit down knowing exactly what you want to write, but the _words_ you need _just_ wont come to you, and you feel like if you set anything down on paper it _just_ wouldn't be right.

I have _not_ given up on this fanfiction, by any stretch of the imagination. I'm just lazy, and sometimes I need to be beaten into shape by angry fans. In other news, I'm going to start updating bits of information and **pictures relating to my novel** on Deviant Art, so that anyone interested in my work can see what I'm up to. I've also uploaded a **picture of Nathanos and Ketala** to Deviant Art. The link to my pics is available on my profile page

* * *

_**Plans**_

* * *

Undercity

Varimathras was comfortable. It was a strange sensation; he had gotten used to a lot of aches and pains over the last year. He grunted and slowly opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

Harsh stone walls greeted him, riddled with claw marks and other gouges. A few bloodstains marred the floor, and torturous weapons hung from the far wall. Varimathras stiffened momentarily and then recognized his surroundings and gave a long sigh. He was within his personal quarters in the Undercity. These were his marks of frustration, his torturous weapons. The blood belonged to an unfortunate succubus who had found him there. He was safe here. _Safe at last…_

For a long moment, he didn't move, gazing vacantly at a chipped and unremarkable stone in his wall, thinking over the events of the last few days. At length he became aware of a heavy weight on his brow, and he lifted a hand to touch his forehead. As he drew his hand out from beneath his covers, he became aware of the bandages that covered his frame and wrapped carefully around his hand and fingers- Fingers!

Varimathras sat bolt upright, nearly swooned from pain, fell back against his pillows, and stared at his healed hand in amazement. After a moment, he brought his other hand before him and saw that it had also been mended. He lifted his hands to his brow and found both of his horns had completely regenerated. In grinding his jaws together, he could feel the presence of his fangs, and the absence of any pain in his feet hinted that his hooves had also been restored.

_She had me healed… _his mind concluded in astonishment. _I am whole… She had me healed!_

"Yes, I did." Her voice came from his open door, and he twisted his head to look in that direction. Sylvanas was standing there in all her deathly glory. She had washed herself free of Detheroc's blood, and her bone-white hair spiraled around her in a pearly cascade. "How do you feel?"

Varimathras swallowed, ignoring the fact that she had read his mind with such ease. "Much better," he said after a moment, and then quickly added, "Thank you, milady."

Sylvanas gave a thin smile, and slowly stepped into his room. The dreadlord swallowed as she came closer and closer, for he still had no guarantee that she wouldn't strike him dead on the spot. She glided all the way up to his bed, and paused, eyeing him sharply.

"You betrayed me," she said after a long time.

He nodded. "I made a mistake," he said softly. "A very large and glaring mistake."

She snorted, and a hint of a snarl crept into her voice. "I remember what you did at the Frozen Throne," the Black Lady hissed. "I remember how Arthas gave my spirit to you, and how you tormented me. In fact, the last thing I recall was you _eating_ me."

"I did not eat!" he protested hastily, trying to appease her. "I swallowed whole! There are magics one can use to protect the soul from being digested!"  
"Oh?" she asked icily. "Then tell me, Varimathras: Why did you go to so much trouble to steal my soul out from beneath Arthas? Why protect me?"

"To cover my back," he answered truthfully. "I felt that I might have been wrong to trust the Lich King's hollow promises. By saving you, I ensured that I could repair what damage I had done, and perhaps undo my betrayal."

"But only if Arthas betrayed _you_," she hissed.

Varimathras winced and nodded.

Sylvanas snorted and turned to his window. It was open again, and she stared at the dark scenery beyond, a grim expression on her face. Varimathras remained silent, watching her. When she spoke, her voice was not angry but mournful. "Why?" she inquired. "Why did you betray me? The truth?"

The Dreadlord looked down at his mended hands, and took in a slow breath. _She prefers when I am honest,_ he reminded himself. _It calms her, makes her less volatile._ "You are a tad abusive," he said hesitantly. "The last time you tortured me, you left me broken in a cell next to Anub'arak. I was angry and acted irrationally; I took up Anub'arak's offer to aid the Lich King."

Sylvanas looked back at him, a puzzled expression on her face. "So," she asked quietly, "you are saying it is my fault?"

Varimathras stiffened, and took in a steadying breath. "No. It was mine. My reasons did _not_ justify my actions. But you asked me why I betrayed you, and I did it for those reasons."

Sylvanas watched him for the longest moment, and did not say a word. At long last, she leaned over him. Her slender hand, cold and skeletal, stroked lightly over his cheek. "Never, ever, betray me again," she said in a low, cold voice. "Make one wrong move, one false step, and you will follow Detheroc to oblivion."

Varimathras nodded. "I believe you," he told her. Sylvanas tilted her head to the side and smiled. Then, suddenly she leaned down and pressed her mouth firmly to his, kissing him openly, deeply, passionately.

The ex-Dreadlord stared up at her in bewilderment, his lips moving slightly in response to hers, his brows furrowed in confusion. Instinct prompted him to lift a hand and touch her hair, but experience cautioned him not to. The last time he had listened to his instincts concerning Sylvanas' kisses, he'd gotten stabbed. He didn't want to offend her, especially at such a dangerous time.

She chuckled at his uncertainty and broke off the kiss, smiling cruelly at him. "You are mine," she said. "My pet, my servant, my slave. No one else will ever want you. You have no other place, no other master. You belong entirely to me, forever." Varimathras grimaced, but nodded, acknowledging the truth of her statement. In the end, how was it any different from belonging to the Burning Legion?

Sylvanas regarded him and then slowly stood and moved to leave his room. The ex-Dreadlord blinked and watched as she departed, confused by her actions. As she reached the door, he blurted out a strange question, a question he regretted the second he asked it:

"Do you care for me?"

The Banshee Queen halted abruptly in his doorway, her body going rigid and her hands clenching tightly into fists. Varimathras swore mentally to himself and tightly closed his eyes, praying he hadn't just sealed his own fate. A long, agonizing moment past, during which Varimathras tried to shrink further and further into himself. At least, the Banshee Queen chuckled and shook her head, her aggressive posture fading away. "I cannot care for you, Varimathras, any more than I can care for anything else. To do so would be to invite you to take advantage of me in my moments of weakness. I let you do so last time; I cannot let you do so again." With that she walked out the door, leaving the ex-Dreadlord alone.

* * *

Undercity

True to her word, Jaina Proudmoore teleported the ranger and his companions back to the Undercity at the break of dawn. However, as Jaina was a bit of a wiseass, she could not resist teleporting Nathanos directly _into_ the Undercity. In the resulting commotion, Ouro ended up wrapped around the full length of the Undercity's central hub, hissing and spitting at the giant bats that called the place home. Nathanos stood near the bank, smiling at Ouro's antics and reconsolidating his opinion of the Lady Proudmoore.

The giant worm was causing an absolute mess. Abominations were flying through the air left and right. The stalls of vendors were being knocked over and tossed about, bats were being eating whole, and the occasional Forsaken was being flattened beneath her mighty bulk.

Ras looked curiously at their surroundings and then realized exactly where he was. He meeped and hid behind Nathanos, hoping that no undead had seen him. "Aren't you going to stop her?" he asked in a flustered voice, peering out at the sandworm.

Nathanos blinked and looked over his shoulder at the frightened mage. A large and evil grin spread over the ranger's face, and Ras's eyes widened in horror. Immediately the mage stumbled backward and began to cast a teleportation spell.

"Guards!" Nathanos called in mock-terror. "Guards, there is a human mage on the premises! Doubtless he is the one who called this worm here!"

Four abominations and twelve Forsaken swiveled their way, their eyes locking on the purple-robed human.

Nathanos gave a content smile and looked back to Ouro. "I suppose I should get her out of here before she gets herself hurt," he admitted. "Oh well. It was fun while it lasted."

_Tiny, tiny beasties, poke at me, hate them, too small place, too small! Don't fit, bite, bite, stop bothering me, get away, hate, hate, hate, hate, HATE-_

"Ouro! Calm, calm."

The great worm paused and reached forward with her antenna, letting them brush over the leather armor of her master. In the dismal light of the Undercity her eyes could see nothing, but she knew the scent of her master well. An unhappy sound escaped from the depths of her throat and she scuttled closer to him, seeking direction. He rubbed his hands gently over her antenna and then pulled himself onto her back. Ouro reared up a bit to better accommodate him, and then waited patiently for instructions. She even managed to ignore the irritating warlock who was trying to drain her soul out through her tail.

"Good girl," the ranger murmured soothingly. "Come on, let's get you out of here-"

"Nathanos. Blightcaller."

Nathanos jerked his head up at the familiar voice and blinked several times. After a moment, he turned around in his seat and looked behind him. Standing there was Sylvanas Windrunner.

Nathanos tilted his head to the side and then turned Ouro around so the worm was facing her, and he didn't have to twist around in his seat. "Nice to see you up and active, milady!" he called pleasantly.

"Why, Nathanos, is there a giant worm in my city?"

"Because I'm compensating for my lack of libido," he answered solemnly. "Oh, and we had a teleportation mishap. Ouro, here, is my animal companion, and I was just about to lead her out of the city.

Sylvanas regarded him a long moment, her face unreadable. "We are sending our forces against Zul'Mashar in two weeks. You will lead them."

"I'll think about it," Nathanos answered blithely.

"It was not a request," the banshee snapped, her eyes gleaming with hate. "You have failed me in countless ways, Nathanos Blightcaller. You will lead the attack on Zul'Mashar, or I shall kill you here and now."

If the Ranger Lord was intimidated, he did not show it. "How have I failed you?" he asked innocently. "Is this about how I neglected to tell you that Varimathras had thrown his lot in with Arthas? Or is it how I abandoned the Undercity when you 'died,' simply because I didn't care about it? Maybe it's because I thought it would be funny to put the Apothecarium in charge? Oh, but perhaps it's due to the fact that I suggested you possess Ketala, and so I am indirectly responsible for Arthas gaining control of your soul…?"

The intensity of Sylvanas's furious gaze was so potent that Nathanos could almost smell it. Unperturbed by his queen's deadly anger, the ranger pondered and then shook his head. "No, no, I think you're most upset that I left the undead lands all together and went to Southern Kalimdor to take care of the orcish problems instead! Bugger, I should have seen that one coming! If only that damned teleportation scroll hadn't misfired…"

"How _dare_ you-"

"Oh well, I _do_ have good news milady," he chattered on, smiling warmly at her. "You won't have to worry about me and my failures! You see, I don't even have time to stay around here, so I'll be completely out of your hair."

"I am going to kill you," she hissed, tearing her bow from her shoulder and quickly nocking a black arrow.

"You will have to wait," he returned in a low voice, his pleasant façade slipping away and his hawk eyes narrowing on her. "For the last two and a half years, Ketala has been held in captivity by Kel'Thuzad. I am going after her, and no one; not you, not the Undercity, not even Arthas himself; is going to stop me."

Sylvanas blinked, confusion mixing in with her anger. "You are my servant, the Champion of the Banshee Queen."

"And to you I owe my loyalty, yes," he responded. "But if I bow to your whims now, I will lose the will to pursue her, and you know well that we need to get Ketala away from the Lich King. I must defy you, if only to further your cause."

This piqued the undead queen's interest, and she lowered her bow, regarding the Ranger Lord curiously. "She is being held in Naxxramas, or so my advisors tell me," she murmured softly. "Are you telling me that you plan on sacking the necropolis?"

"With, or without your help," the ranger acknowledged.

"A rather passionate course of action for someone who went missing in Silithus for two years, don't you think?"

"I got bored," he replied nonchalantly. "Zul'Mashar is hardly a challenge."

"Indeed," the Dark Lady crooned pleasantly. "So it has nothing to do with lingering guilt over the fact that you let Kel'Thuzad take her?"

"Lingering? I felt guilt in the first place?" he asked, a confused expression on his face. "No, milady. I let Kel'Thuzad get his hands on a piece of prized weaponry. I don't feel guilty- I feel pissed."

Sylvanas chuckled blackly, and gave a slow, definitive nod. "Naxxramas it is, then. We strike for the head of the Plaguelands."

"As the Dark Lady wills," Nathanos assured her with saccharine charm. "Now, please give me a moment to relocate my pet." Sylvanis gave him a dismissive wave, and so he turned Ouro about and urged her towards the sewers.

It did eventually occur to him that Flower had gone missing in the commotion.

* * *

Naxxramas

The sounds of approaching undead grew louder.

Thaddius looked up from Ketala and stared worriedly at the door to his chamber. Ketala's gaze followed his, and she took in a deep, steadying breath. "I have an idea of how we might escape," she informed the giant abomination. "But you need to listen very carefully to the instructions I give you."

"I'll listen!" he promised emphatically, turning his viridian gaze back to her. "I learned how to give a gentle hug, didn't I?"

Ketala smiled up at him and gave his hand a gentle pat. "Yes, you did. I know you can do this. Now, carry me up to the door and set me down. I'm going to try and buy us some time."

Thaddius tilted his head to the side, but began walking up to the door. "Buy… time?" he questioned, unfamiliar with the idiom.

Ketala chuckled. "It means I'm going to make it harder for them to get to us. So we have more time to escape," she explained.

"Oh! Oh, okay." He smiled to himself and mouthed the words 'buy time', before reaching the door and kneeling to place her near the ground. Ketala thanked him, climbed out of his palm, and rushed to shut the door.

_I can do this_, she assured herself. _I can save him. I can save myself. I must do this. I cannot fail. _She looked back at the titanic abomination, with his trusting green eyes and childish smile. _I cannot let them hurt him again. _

Ketala gave a gentle smile at her monstrous companion, and then returned her attention to the door. Her eyes began to whirl a mix of browns, yellows, and greens, and she carefully drew her scimitars from their sheaths. _I can do this. I can save him._

"Terra," she murmured. Her scimitars arced out and whipped forward, green energy spiraling down their lengths. _I am strong enough. I am skilled enough._ She stabbed, striking into the stone doorframe, into the ground, into the door itself. Green energy trailed after her, bathing her in its earthen glow. _I am enough. I can do this. _She twirled around, drawing the scimitars close, and as she did so the stone doorframe began to change. It warped and mutated, as if it were jelly instead of stone. Then it began to ooze, to move, creeping over the extent of the door, barricading it against the oncoming Scourge.

Thaddius gasped in surprise, and could not resist touching the moving stone. It was as cold and unyielding as any normal stone, and yet he could feel it moving beneath his fingers. Puzzled and amazed, he looked down at his new little sister and gave an admiring smile.

Ketala repeated this exercise twice more and then regarded her work. "That should hold," she decided at last, turning back to Thaddius and climbing quickly up into his hand. The titan blinked and held quite still until she was sitting safely upon his palm, and then he lifted her up to his eye level.

"What now?" he asked.

"We need to find a better way out," Ketala explained. "Take me over to the back wall of this room."

He nodded and obeyed, his gigantic feet making deep booming noises as he quickly traversed the great laboratory. When they reached the other side, Ketala eyed the wall appraisingly.

"Lift your other hand like this," she instructed, raising one of her hands with her fist balled. "And knock upon the wall." She made a light knocking gesture, so he would understand exactly what she meant. He nodded in understanding and did so.

His arm went straight through the wall, knocking loose a stone block, and causing dust to fly up in the air. Ketala burst out laughing. A look of surprise overtook the titan abomination's face, and he looked worriedly at his little sister.

"That's good!" she assured him through her giggles. "That's fine! Do it again, pull the whole wall down till you can walk through!"

Thaddius gave her a confused look but then smiled and nodded, and attempted to jerk his arm free. When it didn't come loose he blinked and jerked harder, and almost dropped Ketala in the process. He paused and frowned at his trapped arm. Then he looked at Ketala and carefully drew her against his chest, cupping his fingers protectively around her. The undead paladin tilted her head to the side, and then let out a startled squeak when he hunched over her, turned his shoulder into the wall, and rammed it with all the force of a gnome subway train.

Rocks flew everywhere, bouncing off his shoulders, forearms, head and back. He seemed unfazed by them and shrugged them off as if they were feathers. His feet, however, caught upon a particularly stubborn stone block, and he tripped forward and sprawled wildly into the room beyond.

He landed with an 'oof,' looked dazedly around for a moment, and then gasped in alarm and looked quickly down at Ketala, hoping desperately that he hadn't flattened her.

The undead paladin wiped dust off her face and then gave a laugh, her eyes whirling merrily up at him. "I'm okay," she told him. "You fell right on top of me and didn't flatten your hand out in the slightest. I'm impressed!"

Thaddius sighed in relief and clambered to his feet, hugging the little paladin against him and then holding her out in front of him again. He looked at the wall he had just crashed through and his eyes widened.

"I did that," he marveled aloud, a bewildered expression on his face. Stones and debris lay in piles all over the place. As he watched, another stone came loose and tumbled to the ground.

"You did," Ketala agreed, patting the curve of his thumb. "It was splendid."

His eyes quickly turned to her and he gave a shy smile, a blush creeping over his cheeks again. So innocent and adorable was this expression that Ketala was forced to smile as well, and she gave his thumb a tight hug (for hugging any other part of him would have been nigh impossible).

The two, giant and paladin, were standing in a fairly expansive hallway, in a part of Naxxramas Ketala had never visited. Ordinarily, the undead paladin would have told Thaddius to bash his way to the outer wall of the building. There she would have seized control of a nearby Frostwyrm and instructed it to fly him to safety.

Unfortunately, due to Thaddius's size and weight, she doubted that any Frostwyrm short of Sapphiron could have carried him from the necropolis. Instead, the duo needed to make use of the teleportation device at the heart of Naxxramas. Likely Kel'Thuzad had deduced this as well, and had set up guards all around the necropolis' center.

Ketala sighed. _I can do this_, she reminded herself once more, and then she pointed down one hallway and looked up at Thaddius. "Head that way. Move as swiftly as you can."

Her new brother gave a nod, and started off in that direction, holding Ketala close against his chest.

_Light… Protect us…_

Sitting upon his loyal horse, around the rim of Naxxramas's teleportation device, ex-Highlord Mograine gave a slow and manic smile. "Light from darkness," he whispered. "Birthed from death, an ember hidden by the choking ash. So you are, and so you always will be, Servant of Ice… Though, perhaps not in the way you first imagined… A Deathknight is but ash. Only the threat of frost can draw the wind."

_Your ruse appears to have worked, Highlord, _a silky voice whispered within the depths of his mind, the voice Mograine existed to serve. _The girl has submitted herself to anger and self destruction- and now she has allowed her hopes to be built up. All it takes is a single blow, and she will fall to ruin. My new deathknight, my new champion, is but a step away. Your service will be rewarded…_

Mograine laughed, a loud, bizarre, insane cackle, reeking of filth and death. "Threat of frost," he said in a mirthful voice. "Twin spirit's wind."

"Reignite the flame."

* * *

Theramore

Nobundo was meditating, allowing the spirits of air, earth, water, and fire to rush around him, to rush through him. He took in a deep breath and sighed, letting the elemental energies repair and shield him. His arthritic knuckles shrunk ever so slightly, the bulging joints losing perhaps a centimeter in width. His fingers shifted, savoring their new freedom from pain and decay. The vertebrae in his back straightened another hair of a degree, and he rolled his shoulders backwards, trying to stretch out his aching muscles… A voice. High-pitched and laughing.

His eyes flickered open, and he looked curiously towards his door. There, as clear as a lamp in a dark room, was Jaina's mysterious little shaman. He could feel the elemental power radiating from this thing, this child, bathing his room in its presence. The novice shaman was walking down the hallway, and someone was accompanying it.

Nobundo swallowed, and then carefully, painfully pushed himself to his feet. He reflected that he needed to meditate more- his body was showing more strain than usual. Still, he could not let this opportunity go by. He needed to catch a glimpse of this mysterious shaman.

He reached his door and carefully opened it, being certain not to make a sound. Two beings were walking down the tower's hallway, a small child and an adult… an adult with sunken flesh and yellow, glowing eyes…

Undead. Nobundo's eyes widened in surprise, and he cocked his head to the side. Jaina had spoken of her father briefly in their conversations, and had explained that the man had been brought back as an undead. She had told Nobundo that this man now served her as an Admiral. Admiral Daelin Proudmoore. The hairs on the back of Nobundo's neck stood on end, but he refrained from confronting or assaulting the undead man. Instead, Nobundo marked his distinctive hat and professional clothing. This had to be Jaina's father- there was no other explanation.

After a brief moment, he looked down at the child at Daelin's side. The little one was dressed in an overlarge cloak and chatting happily with its undead guardian. Its voice was of such a quality that Nobundo decided it must be female.

_She_ was adorable, with her sleeves brushing against the ground and her hood drooping over her face, and the tail of her cloak dragging after her. Her cute little waddle and naïve exuberance contrasted sharply with her guardian's sharp stride and morbid demeanor.

A precious, delightful little girl.

What baffled him most, however, was the fact that Jaina and her father were actively _hiding_ this child. Her cloak, for instance, was obviously in place to cover every patch of her skin. For the life of him, Nobundo could not fathom a reason for why an entire family would work so diligently to keep the girl out of sight.

"Grandpa?" the little girl chimed as the two walked past him and disappeared from view. "I smell funny."

Nobundo blinked, and blinked again. Every piece fell together in a matter of seconds, building up an elaborate image. Every clue, every movement, every strange circumstance collided together in a rush. With a small, "Oh," Nobundo realized the truth.

She was Jaina's child.

An illegitimate child.

They hid her because she was not supposed to exist. Because no one was supposed to know about her. Her father was probably some poor deckhand or penniless advisor, unfit to marry royalty. Nobundo sighed and nodded to himself. He had wanted to ask Jaina about the little girl, but now he realized he'd have to wait for the sorceress to bring up the subject herself. This was going to be a long and delicate road.

* * *

(cont.)

Jaina had told Daelin she might be gone for two to three days, and when he and Kallah returned home from a long day of fishing, the sorceress was still missing. Daelin sighed lightly, but didn't comment. Instead he located a bathroom, and ran some water for a hot bath. As the bath filled, he noted that magical plumbing was a wonderful thing.

After there was enough water, he sent Kallah into the bathroom to wash off, as she smelled of the swamp. As she bathed, he found her some fresh nightclothes and set them next to the bathroom door. Then he located one of Jaina's couches, flopped down on it, and heaved a great sigh.

His daughter had a sex life.

Her lover was an orc.

Orcs were the enemy.

His daughter had a child.

So, Daelin had a granddaughter.

The child's name was Kallah.

And Kallah couldn't swim.

Daelin chuckled and shook his head. "I must be going crazy. I haven't argued with Jaina about the Horde for a week, and here I am furious that she hasn't taught her daughter to swim." He reflected on that for a moment and then said, slowly, "My granddaughter can't swim. She had never seen a ship up close until this very morning."

He rubbed his temple and the bridge of his nose.

"I'm calling a half-orc "granddaughter.""

He grimaced.

"How the _hell_ could Jaina _not_ teach her to swim? Jaina could swim before she could walk! She lives on an island! An island surrounded by nothing but water! Water, and land that's soaked with water! Our family crest involves an anchor! Is she insane? Could she not have snuck the child onto a sloop one night? They wouldn't even have to walk out on the dock! Jaina could have taken a sloop out into the swamp, put down its anchor, and _teleported_ Kallah there!"

Daelin stood up and began to pace, gesturing angrily through the air.

"It's not like the child has shown a disinterest in ships; The girl's bloody obsessed with them! She makes a better model of a second-war battleship than any sailor I've ever seen! And what has she been given for reference? Probably nothing more than old books and tapestries! I thought she'd explode from joy when Jaina teleported us to my sloop!"

Well, the explanation was fairly obvious. Jaina didn't always have a lot of time to spend with Kallah. Often, when the sorceress was home, she was working on spells or battle plans. Daelin knew that Jaina was often overworked, and would frequently pull all-nighters trying to get some project finished. What with the war in Silithus, the conflict in Northrend, and the expedition into Outland, Jaina simply didn't have time to give Kallah a proper sea-faring education.

"Unacceptable!" the undead admiral snarled. "If Jaina will not spend the time to teach Kallah what it means to be a Proudmoore, than I will have to! Never will a sailor be able to call any of my flesh and blood a land-lover!"

"Grandpa?" came a little voice from behind him. Daelin blinked and looked over his shoulder to see Kallah standing there in her night dress. She gave him a funny look.

"Erm…" Daelin coughed and turned, coming up to the little girl. "I see your hair is still a mess. Would you like me to help you with it?"

A look of delight broke out over the little girl's face, and she immediately forgot about her grandfather's ramblings. "Okay!" she chimed happily, and she hurried off into the bathroom to get her brush.

Daelin sighed and followed her. He decided that Kallah was his penance for walking the world as one of the undead.

* * *

Andorhal

Vaiden had but five possessions: his shirt, his pants, his left sock, his right sock, and a little doll his mother had given to him. Textiles had been rare within Naxxramas, and so Ketala had been forced to loot the bodies of the dead to gather material for his clothing. The shirt had once been a Silver Hand tabard. The pants had been crafted from the violet robe of a Kiren'tor mage, and each of his socks had once been part of a scarlet crusader's uniform.

Needless to say, none of those overly fanatical groups would have been happy to see Vaiden's clothing. In light of this, one of the first things Zeliek did upon reaching Andorhal was procure some new clothes for the boy.

The doll, however, Vaiden would not part with. It was an ugly little thing, more rag than doll, and frayed at every edge imaginable. It had been made from the soft silk of a priest's robe, and was pieced together with the same heavy-duty thread used in abominations. Its eyes were made from copper pieces, and its mouth was an uneven black line of stitches. Its only attractive feature was its hair, so black it could be considered blue. Zeliek guessed that Ketala had severed a few locks of her own tresses and sewn them onto the doll's head.

Vaiden loved it. He carried it everywhere with him, and nuzzled against it, stroking its hair and hugging it whenever he seemed nervous. He slept with it, ate with it, walked with it, rode with it, smiled with it, frowned with it- there was never a portion of his little life where he ever set the tiny doll down. If the little black-haired rag disappeared from view, it was only because Vaiden had hidden it within his own clothing, perhaps to keep it safe from the world.

Zeliek watched as Vaiden played with the little rag doll. The child was stroking its hair and pretending that it was fighting off some invisible monster. The undead paladin smiled lightly, and reached over to stroke the boy's unruly brown mane. "You need a haircut," he observed out loud. "Something to match your new clothes." The little boy looked up at him and made a face. The paladin blinked and then laughed, ruffling the child's hair. "Oh, fine… fine… No haircut."

Vaiden smiled lightly at the attention and hugged his doll against his chest. From across the room, a voice wondered "So this... this is her kid?"

The voice belonged to an ex-deathknight by the name of Lodan, the current 'steward' of Andorhal. Lodan had been in service to Ketala when she had been abducted into Naxxramas, and had continued to serve Andorhal after her disappearance. He, as the most stable individual in Andorhal, had taken up the mantle of leader. He'd finished Ketala's great Cathedral, and he'd led her people through trial after trial.

He felt like someone Zeliek could trust. "Yes," the undead paladin confirmed. "I don't know if she was able to get a message out to you before the Lich King overwhelmed her again."

"No, Andorhal knew she was pregnant," Lodan murmured quietly. "We knew just about everything she did- at least until Kel'Thuzad took her. The bulk of the undead here, their minds were wrapped very tightly with her own. This child is Nathanos's, yes?"

Zeliek nodded slowly. The idea of a 'good' undead hive mind still bothered him, but he realized that it had only been established to keep the undead together and to keep them stable. "She asked me to take Vaiden to Nathanos."

Lodan grunted. "That sounds like Ketala. Putting faith where faith has no business being placed. But, I suppose I cannot complain. If she were not so sympathetic towards the undead, we would all still be in the service of the Lich King."

Zeliek tilted his head to the side. "You disagree with how she led Andorhal?"

The ex-deathknight laughed and shook his head. "I disagree with how readily she puts herself in harm's way. Case in point: Nathanos. I do not know how much she has told you of him, but the Ranger Lord has struggled with very malign impulses since I met him. He isn't evil, no… but I would certainly describe him as sadistic."

The undead paladin frowned. "Do you think I should keep Vaiden from him?"

Lodan sighed. "He was also very, very close to her. Hell, I thought he'd been abducted _with_ her. No one's seen him since Ketala disappeared. He may be dead."

"Ketala seemed to believe he was alive," the paladin noted.

"I'll trust her judgment them. But if Nathanos is alive, something must have kept him away all these years. He is cruel, selfish, and abusive… But he would not have left Ketala there alone. He loves her too much."

"He does not sound like a very reputable person. How do you know he would not have abandoned her? How do you know he loved her?"

Lodan smirked. "Aside from the fact that his heart would start beating when she was close to him? Nathanos loved her. Just not in a conventional way. But, Ketala never told him she had conceived. He may not want Vaiden… and he may not be the best choice of parent. Ketala could be setting herself up for more heartbreak… Still, if she told you to bring Vaiden to Nathanos, then I think you should heed her wishes. It's not like she's asked for much. And who knows? Perhaps he needs help."

Zeliek regarded the ex-deathknight for a long moment, and then nodded slowly. "Do you have any idea where I should begin my search for him?"

Lodan thought for a moment, and then nodded. "One other being was there at Ketala's abduction… A man by the name of Tirion Fordring." Zeliek's eyes widened slightly in recognition at the name. "He should currently be in Light's Hope Chapel, or perhaps he's stationed in Quel'Thalas. Either way, you must make a difficult trip across the Plaguelands in order to reach him. I'll prepare everything and properly brief you about the journey. If my mistress wants Vaiden in Nathanos's care, then…" he sighed, "I shall do everything in my power to fulfill her wishes, no matter how much I personally dislike the Ranger Lord." He turned and headed to the door leading out of the inn. "In the mean time, try to rest. I'm certain Naxxramas hasn't been kind to you."

"Thank you," the undead paladin murmured appreciatively.

Vaiden just played, oblivious to the discussion of his elders.

* * *

Naxxramas

Naxxramas was in chaos. Undead flew left and right, smashing in the walls, ceiling and floor. When they collided with something, abominations generally exploded into a pile of unattractive green slime, and ghouls would burst like shrapnel into hundreds of skeletal shards. At the center of this mess was Thaddius, stooped over and slapping angrily at his attackers. At his feet, Ketala nimbly dodged his various stomps and kicks, and tore apart anything that threatened to hurt or trip him. They were a splendid team- honed skill and brute strength combined into a single fighting force.

With every blow, with every swing of Ketala's scimitars, they moved forward. At times, Thaddius's steps were reduced to painfully slow shuffles as he pressed against a wave of unforgiving attackers. At other times, Ketala would signal him and he'd charge straight through the undead lines, crushing ghouls, liches, and necromancers with nothing more than his feet and his mighty weight.

Hope welled in the paladin girl's chest, blooming out and wrapping her in a safe cocoon. They were winning! They were breaking through, and the heart of Naxxramas loomed closer, and closer! _I can do this! I can actually save him! I can save myself from this hell! _An abominaton lumbered forward with a thick grappling hook in its hands. Ketala laughed and charged at the creature, plunging her blades through its chest, head, and gut. Nothing could stop them! No monster within Naxxramas's walls could hold Thaddius at bay, and with Ketala at his feet, he was almost invulnerable. His titanic boots shielded his legs, and his gauntlets protected his arms. Rare was it that a weapon even landed on his bare flesh, and then it took only a light, effortless smack, and his attacker would be flattened like a common mosquito.

Arthas taunted her in the back of her skull, but light flowed through her and kept his words at bay. He wouldn't stop her. Nothing would stop her. They were both going to be free.

Over the sounds of battle, Ketala heard a thick, ominous clicking noise. It was followed quickly by a clank, a whoosh of air, and then a tree-sized harpoon was sailing through the air, arcing straight at her titanic sibling.

"Thaddius!" she screamed.

His green eyes flicked up to the airborne missile, and blinked once in surprise. He reared up and grabbed at the object instinctively.

His fingers closed around it and the wood splintered somewhat at the force of his grip. Ketala's eyes widened in surprise. Thaddius stared at the giant harpoon in bafflement and then looked down at his little sister for direction. Ketala swallowed and deftly stabbed a nearby ghoul. "Do you see where it came from?" she called up to him.

The titan blinked and looked around, squinting his eyes. Down the hallway, he could see a strange wooden contraption that might have been responsible for the harpoon.

"I think so!" he rumbled back excitedly.

"Throw that thing right back at it!" she encouraged.

Thaddius looked confused down at her, but nodded and tried to aim the harpoon. He stuck his tongue out, and nearly bit it in half with his metal jaws, and then stepped forward and threw the weapon as hard as he could.

He missed the machine by a landslide. His harpoon skimmed the ceiling, exploded through an archway, dumped giant rocks all over the enemy, turned sideways when it hit a flying obsidian destroyer, and then landed horizontally upon the enemy, crushing thirty unfortunate ghouls and rolling and bouncing on to crush dozens more.

Thaddius winced. "Oops. I missed," he confessed shyly.

Ketala burst out laughing. "Get down here you silly goose! I need you to push back these abominations so I can detach some grappling hooks from your boots." He smiled at her loving tone of voice, and stooped down to smack some unfortunate abominations out of the way.

They were going to _win_!

A roar sounded down the corridor. This time, when Thaddius looked up, he saw that the hordes of undead were parting like a sea. Charging through the center of the swarm was a great skeletal monstrosity, with blue energy wafting around it. It was unlike anything Thaddius, in his limited experience, had ever seen, so he looked down to Ketala for guidance.

Ketala grimaced. "Its name is Sapphiron. Get down a side tunnel. Now." Thaddius blinked, and Ketala looked up at him, her eyes blazing orange. "Now!" she commanded, and she thrust her sword at one of Naxxramas's halls. "Run!"

Thaddius jumped and pivoted immediately, charging in the direction Ketala had specified. Behind him, the thing called "Sapphiron" roared. There was a mighty whoosh of air. He did not stop to look behind him, merely grabbed on to the corner of the side tunnel and dashed inside. An explosion of frost energy rippled down the corridor behind him. It lined the corridor, from top to bottom, and rippled past like a freight train.

Thaddius whirled around and his eyes opened wide. He looked down, and then gave a sigh of relief when he saw Ketala clinging to his left boot. Her scimitars had turned a white-blue color, and her eyes whirled cobalt. "Be ready!" she shouted above the sound of the ice blast. "Tackle it the second it reaches this hallway! This icy mess comes out of its mouth, so be careful!" Thaddius nodded, and clenched his hands nervously. The icy storm ended, and the earth boomed with each of Sapphiron's mighty strides.

Closer.

Closer.

A skidding noise, and then Sapphiron's mighty head wrapped around the corner and its mouth opened wide, a blue aura gathering in the back of its throat. On instinct, Thaddius leapt forward, seized its lower jaw, and rammed its head bodily into the ceiling of the hallway. Its jaws snapped closed and the frostbolt exploded harmlessly within the confines of its skull.

With what Mighty Sapphiron had left of a mind, the great dragon was pissed.

* * *

I love my novel…

Here's to hoping I update the next chapter faster! _**YAARRRG!**_


	16. Epic Fail

I am alive! It's just school, you know, it's... it's... SCHOOLish! You guys just keep on my case, I'll upload, I promise!

This chapter was rewritten a good 4-5 times and I was never completely satisfied with it ;) That's what took so long. And school, of course. I'm gonna work on getting the next Children of Aiur fic up soon, but with everything I have to do, it could take 10 minutes or 10 months, who knows!

I don't really have any new fanart. Since I last uploaded, I put up some images for my novel, as well as a picture of Sasha (from Children of Aiur) and a concept of Kay(from Children of Aiur). In a couple minutes, I'm going to upload a new computer painting that has to do with my novel, a practise spar between Avian and her mentor! BWAHAHAHAH!

Also, I am enjoying Spore in the few off-moments I get to play it.

* * *

_**Epic Fail**_

* * *

_Zangarmarsh, Outland_

Zul'vii was growing fond of the Zangarmarsh. It was a strange place, but all quite beautiful with its glowing insects and blue mushroomy ambiance... Oh, and then there were the sporelings! Sporelings were an adorable people that stood no higher than a gnome. They closely resembled tiny tree stumps, covered in all kinds of strange glowing fungi. Even Ember seemed to like them, and would often help them out and get Zul'vii embroiled in some bizarre misadventure.

Sort of like their current escapade! Zul'vii and Ember were currently escorting a fungal giant and a sporeling into naga territory, to retrieve something called the "Ark of Ssslith." In Zul'vii's humble opinion, nothing in the world could legitimize the use of a single letter three times in a row- but then, that was naga for you.

"Zul'vii?" Ember asked curiously. "There are naga here… But I've only ever seen naga with uncle Illidan. Do you think they work for him?"

The half troll thought briefly about the character of Lady Vashj. Zul'vii had never been on good terms with the naga leader. In her opinion, Vashj was a very selfish, jealous, and fanatical person.

"It's possible," Zul'vii decided. "But the naga are not a kind people. They probably wouldn't help you get to Illidan. Heck, they'd probably aid Archimonde."

"Oh," Ember said, somewhat disappointed. "I really miss Illidan. I wish we didn't have to go to Nagrand."

Zul'vii looked down at the small child for a moment and then gave her a gentle pat on the head. "We don't have to, you know. We could head straight for the Black Temple. For Illidan."

Much to her surprise, Ember shook her head. "Not safe," the girl said. "I saw Illidan. And he reminded me of Archimonde. It was scary."

Zul'vii gave a worried frown, and turned away to throw a tomahawk into an approaching naga. The axe blade collided headlong with the creature's skull, and split open its head like a watermelon.

Seeing that Zul'vii was distracted, Nana zoomed up to her and began raiding her pockets for food. The half-troll sighed and patted the nether ray affectionately. Ember looked at Nana and sighed. They spent the rest of their day in silence.

* * *

_Theramore_

Nobundo had decided that he liked Theramore's cuisine. As was his habit, he chose to eat a relatively plain meal- something that average peasants had available to them. To his surprise, the main diet of Theramore citizens consisted of rich pasta (because it shipped well), fish, and shellfish. At the moment, he was enjoying linguine with red clam sauce. It was wonderful.

Around halfway through supper, the spirits and elements began to whisper softly around him. He paused and lifted his head, just as a small knock sounded from his door. The old Shaman tilted his head to the side and then set down his fork and stood. His old bones protested the motion, so he stretched a bit and then took up his staff and made his way to the door.

"Who calls?" he inquired as he approached.

There was no answer.

Curious, Nobundo reached out and opened the door slightly that he might peer out through the crack. At fist he saw no one, and wondered if his ears were playing tricks on him. Then he looked down and took in a sharp breath. Jaina's child- or what he presumed was Jaina's child- stood there, dressed in black cloth, and donning a protective cloak. She was holding his Earth Totem in her hands and seemed to be inspecting it.

After a moment, she looked up at him, and her face was concealed by the shadows of her hood. "How does it work?" she inquired curiously.

Nobundo blinked and then smiled and opened his door wider. "It is a tool, through which a shaman can conduct their energies," he answered.

"Can you show me?" she asked.

Nobundo nodded. "I would be honored to. Come in, come in, I have a feeling that you are not supposed to be wandering the halls on your own."

The little girl fidgeted uncertainly. "Mother says I shouldn't talk to strangers," she reflected. The shaman smiled gently in response.

"Ah, well then... Forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Nobundo." He bowed as best he could.

"Oh. I'm Kallah! Um... Does this mean you aren't a stranger any more?"

Nobundo chuckled lightly. "I shall leave that up to your discretion."

Kallah hesitated a moment, and glanced down the hall behind her. She thought about the situation for a moment, and then looked back at up Nobundo. There was something about him, something she couldn't quite place. He was safe, the back of her mind told her, trustworthy, nice. And he knew something about shamanism, like old Drek'Thar. Drek'Thar! That's who Nobundo reminded her of.

At last, the little girl nodded, and stepped into the shaman's quarters. "Okay," she said. "But mother will be home in... in... two hours, so I gotta be gone before then."

"Never fear. I shall do my very best to see you home on time," he answered somewhat jovially.

* * *

_The Undercity_

Nathanos Blightcaller was not a very caring person- at least, he didn't like to think so. Most of his peers considered him cruel and manipulative, even sadistic. A rare few had seen his recent, more carefree side, and might label him as having a dark, vicious sort of whimsy. They certainly wouldn't have seen him as the type of being to show concern for whereabouts of two extremely insignificant and annoying humans. And yet, much to his surprise, that's exactly what he found himself doing. Around halfway into the Apothecarium he paused, mused for a moment, and realized that he was maybe… sort of… trying to find Flower.

The thought unsettled him in ways he could not even _begin_ to describe.

After cannibalizing two individuals and kicking a puppy, the distraught Ranger Lord came to the realization that, as much as he hated it, he was going to have to find his missing companions. It wasn't that he missed them, or worried about them, he reasoned. It was just that he gained a much higher level of satisfaction from tormenting them than he gained from any other evil pastime.

He picked up the puppy and took it with him, bandaging up its leg as he went. He was a ranger, after all.

The Apothecarium was a dark place, dripping with sewage and smelling faintly of incense. While it served all the functions of a prison, it was primarily a hub of necromantic science. Abomination parts dangled from the ceiling on huge meat hooks, waiting to be assembled into grotesque monstrosities. Human prisoners huddled in their cages, weeping as their ends drew nearer. All of them would die horrible deaths, at the mercy of some poison or experiment.

The apothecaries themselves were a rather nasty class of people, and most of them were somewhat mad. They gave the Forsaken their bad name, and were currently responsible for coming up with a plague that would both free the Scourge from Arthas and simultaneously wipe the world clean of human life.

It was easy to see why Nathanos liked them

The puppy apparently didn't share his opinion on the Apothecarium, as it started to whine and squirm in his arms. Nathanos absently stroked over its back and scratched its ears, a reflexive gesture that seemed to sooth the small animal.

Flower was locked in one of the Apothecarium cells. He was curled in a corner, whimpering and sniffling, and getting boogers all over his sleeves. Several of the apothecaries were reaching in through the bars, poking and prodding him with contraptions, and causing him to wail and hiccup.

Nathanos covered his face with one of his hands and sighed. He had a good idea why Flower was receiving so much attention. The Undercity had a very small supply of Necromancers, all of which were valuable to the apothecaries. The original Plague of Undeath had been of necromantic origin, after all.

Several apothecaries were standing beside Flower's cage and arguing over a potion that would kill the unfortunate man and bring him back to life as an undead. Some feet away, Master Apothecary Faranell stood hunched and stroking his tongue thoughtfully. Even he seemed interested in Flower.

_He's going to be disappointed,_ Nathanos decided with a touch of wry amusement. Then ranger sighed again, and walked slowly up to the prison cells. Flower remained totally oblivious to his presence, and began crying plaintively for something he referred to as "Piggie".

_This isn't very fair,_ Nathanos noted with some annoyance. _How am I supposed to be a manipulative sadist if I feel sorry for someone as pathetic as him? I'm no better than Ketala this way. _

Nathanos grimaced, but immediately tried to look at it from some other angle, to stop his narrow-minded thought train from running its course. _On the other hand, Flower is largely responsible for C'Thun's death. He could be a very valuable asset against Naxxramas. I know he's going to be useless to these apothecaries. They haven't the foggiest idea how to employ him, and his insanity really limits what can be done with him. _

There! That was an easier way of handling the situation. True, he did feel sorry for the unfortunate necromancer, and he'd have to work on repressing that feeling, but there were also perfectly logical reasons for springing him from the prison.

The fact that Nathanos just happened to be holding a puppy seemed to conveniently escape his manipulative sadist assessment .

"Ranger Lord?" Faranell inquired slowly in Gutterspeak, his shifty eyes avoiding Nathanos's face. "What brings you to us this afternoon?"

_Well, Faranell,_ he thought with sarcastic amusement, _I just wanted to let you know that he requires a diaper change twice a day, and he still needs to be breastfed…_ Yes, the more Nathanos thought about it, the more he realized the absurdity of leaving Flower with the apothecaries. The necromancer would get bored, and would blow up half the Undercity while trying to conjure a cookie, or something equally ridiculous.  
"The Necromancer's with me, Master Apothecary," he said aloud. "I brought him and one other, a mage, from Silithus to help with the attack on Naxxramas."

Faranell frowned. "He is a necromancer," the apothecary hissed. "He should be working with the Apothecarium."

The Ranger Lord gave a smirk. "He has the mental capacity of a small hamster, Faranell. He's completely and entirely insane- and not in a good way. At any one point in time, he has no idea who he is, where he is, what he's doing, how he got there, who the people around him are, or why he should listen to anything anyone else has to say to him. He's useless for any conventional purpose. I keep him around because he has a tendency to accidentally blow things up, and I've a feeling he could start a fire with cold cereal and milk. But to you, Faranell, he serves no purpose. He is a reasonably good necromancer, yes, but he won't be able to communicate a damn thing. And I've a sneaking suspicion that turning him into a Forsaken isn't going to help matters."

Faranell frowned further, and looked back to the Necromancer. "We had gathered he was unstable, yes, but we think we can address the problem. My fellow apothecaries and I believe we have located the problem site in his brain, and we plan to remove it."

"You plan to remove his entire brain?" Nathanos answered in amusement. "Nothing about that man is stable. He's so confused that even the laws of physics escape him. Watch."

He turned towards the cage and held out the dog he was holding. "Flower!" he called. "Look, I got you a puppy!"

Flower looked up immediately. His golden eyes went wide and he suddenly disappeared in a cloud of pink dust, much to the confusion of the surrounding apothecaries. A second later, he reappeared directly in front of the Ranger Lord, with another cloud of pink. "A goose!" he squealed in delight, throwing his arms not only around the puppy, but around Nathanos as well, and hugging both with a gigantic smile upon his face. The puppy yipped in confusion. "I can't believe you got me a goose! It's_ just_ what I've _always_ wanted! Thank youso much, Mommy!"

Nathanos fidgeted, trying to get away from the affectionate necromancer for a moment, and then giving up when he found the man's grip was nigh unbreakable. He looked at Faranell and shrugged helplessly. "See?" he asked the apothecary.

"You're the best mommy in the _whole world_!" Flower wailed happily.

Faranell coughed and nodded. "I suppose you are right. It's a pity, though. And Nathanos, I must say, I didn't see you as the motherly type…" he added, unable to resist the witticism. Nathanos grinned at the comment- a horribly, horribly evil grin.

"Yes, well, you know, me and Varimathras, best buds," the ranger prattled conversationally, much to the horror of the Apothecarium. "I don't suppose you've seen a Kirin'Tor running around?"

Faranell pointed mutely to a cage hanging from the side of the prison, in which the unfortunate mage was suspended. He'd been gagged, and was glaring at Nathanos with something in between anger and bemusement. "Ah! Well, isn't this one happy family reunion? I swear, the two of you are like damsels in distress, I'm always having to rescue you. I suppose it's not so strange, what with the fact that you're always running around in that purple dress…"

Ras yelled, in an exceptionally muffled voice, "WOB!" which Nathanos assumed meant 'robe', but which he purposefully misinterpreted as 'dog'.

"What's that?" he asked the captive mage. "You want the puppy? Flower, bad news: The mage wants your goose."

Flower gave him a look of supreme and unadulterated horror. He then grabbed the puppy and turned around and ran screaming from the Apothecarium, shooting lightning bolts behind him as a distraction. The bolts of lightning missed his non-pursuing pursuers of course, but every single one managed to sever a chain that held an abomination part tethered to the ceiling. Several tons of dead flesh came crashing to the ground, squishing several apothecaries beneath their bulk. With a contented sigh, Nathanos turned back to Ras, and set to freeing him from the cage. "You know, I'd briefly considered leaving the both of you," he informed the gagged mage. "What _was_ I thinking? Who would entertain me, then?"

Master Apothecary Faranell did not stop him, but inwardly he did worry about the safety of the Undercity.

* * *

_Zangarmarsh_

That night, Ember dreamt.

She dreamt of a burning world, limed in green hellfire, black and dead, and covered in bone. She dreamt of slaves, and murder- of hatred and pain- of demons. She dreamt of a great and fiery Eredar, a black and horrible temple, a broken gladiator, drifting through the shadows, eyes cyan, mouth filled with sharp fangs, the owl-eyes of an elf. She dreamt of a living, windswept landscape, with great hills and haunting mountains, of the place Shadowmoon had once been. Of fire. Of spirits. Of death.

She dreamt of Archimonde… and for the first time, saw him in all his living glory, eyes blazing green, so much like Illidan's.

Ember woke up with a start, and took in a deep breath, her golden eyes glittering in the still darkness of the Zangarmarsh. Above her, stars rolled haphazardly through the sky, and around her crickets chirped and swamp beasts rumbled. _Uncle._ She took in a deep breath. _Spirits, I want to talk to my uncle._

They were quite for a moment, before the Draenei spirit at last spoke. _"It's not safe, Ember. If you speak to Illidan, he'll be able to track you."_

_What's wrong with him finding me? _she asked, frowning unhappily.

"_You yourself said he was frightening as he is now."_

_What am I going to learn that will be able to help him? He could be getting worse and worse every day, and you're making me go farther and father from him! If anyone could help him, wouldn't it be me and Zul'vii?_

" '_Zul'vii and I,'_" he corrected her grammar. _"And yes-"_

_Then let me talk to him! If it's so dangerous for me to go to him, let him come to me! Why do we have to go to Nagrand?_

"_To strengthen you, Ember. We know a way to help you fight against Archimonde- and against what Illidan is becoming. We know a way to help. Please, trust us, Ember."_

Ember frowned blackly, and her eyes narrowed. _Let me talk to my uncle. There must be a way, so that he can't track me. I want to talk to him. I can tell something's wrong. He __**needs**__ me._

"_He is more demon than elf, Ember. It's unsafe."_

Ember sat upand clutched at her skull, anger building up within her gut. "_I_am more demon than elf!" she snarled aloud, clambering to her feet and walking some ways from Zul'vii's sleeping form. "You said that you were going to help me. You said that you were on my side. Were you lying?"

The draenei seemed taken aback by her hostile tone, and was quiet a moment longer. The night elf spoke in his stead._ "We only want to protect you, Ember-"_

"I don't need your protection; I need your help!" she snapped.

"_Of course you need protection! Especially here in Outland, surrounded by demons! You want to stay safe from Archimonde, don't you? To have your own life, free from him and his demands? If you go to Nagrand, we can strengthen you- build your defenses up against him! Illidan will only-"_

Ember's golden eyes flamed, and a vicious grimace twisted her lips and bared her teeth. "SHUT UP!" she screamed.

Zul'vii jumped, snorted, sat up, and gave a bewildered "Wh-huh?"

"Shut up!" Ember shrieked again. "Shut up, shut up, you _said_ you would help me! You _said_ you would get me to Illidan, to my uncle! _That_ is what I want! No one can help me! You can't help me! Furion couldn't help me! I want Illidan! I WANT ILLIDAN!"

"_Ember, it's for your own good-"_

"_Ember, this is silly-"_

"_Illidan-"_

"_We want to help-"_

"_We don't-"_

The little girl stumbled, clutching her head, digging slashes into her cheeks. "SHUT UP!"she roared, turning her eyes up to the sky. "I _hate_ you! I hate all of you, I hate you, I hate you, you're just like them, just like all of them, stupid, blind, you don't know what you're talking about, I want my uncle, I WANT MY UNCLE-"

"_Ember," _murmured the tauren spirit, his voice rising above the voices of the others. _"I shall send a written letter to Illidan for you, through magic. If it is your wish that he should know your location, you may inform him of it. It is, after all, _your_ choice, _your_ life. But we _do_ want to help you, Ember. And we want to help him."_

Ember had fast dissolved into anger. Her eyes flamed, and her breath came fast and heavy. The tauren's words soothed her, however, and she began to calm, her posture becoming less feral, less hostile.

"You will? You will send the letter? You won't just throw it out- you _swear_?"

"_I swear this to you, Ember. I will send the letter- any letter you please- to Illidan Stormrage. He will not be able to track the spell. And then, he will be able to send a letter back to you."_

Ember grunted and paced for a few moments, trying to work off excess energy. Zul'vii and Nana watched her curiously from nearby, but Ember ignored both of them.

"_We did not lie to you Ember," _the tauren said gently. _"We fear for you, and sometimes it blurs our judgment. You see, Ember, Illidan may need your help more than you need his- and we can equip you to aid him if you go to Nagrand. As things are now, Illidan is unstable. He may even snap and unintentionally hurt you, like he did last time. We just want you to be safe."_

"I want my uncle," Ember impressed upon him unyieldingly. "You will take me to Illidan by the end of the year, or I will stop listening to anything you have to say."

The spirits were quiet for the longest moment- even the tauren. When they spoke again, it was as one. _"It is a promise," _they assured her. _"Within the year, we will lead you to Illidan."_

"_But," _added the troll spirit, _"If dat be da case, could you stop wandering off into da swamp with da mushroom people? Take longer ta get ta Nagrand dat way."  
_Ember nodded in agreement, and then lifted her head and looked at Zul'vii. The half-troll was watching her with an unprejudiced gaze- curious, but understanding. "Need some paper?" she offered with a smile. Ember swallowed and nodded, and gave a small smile back.

"Yes. Thank you, Zul'vii."

* * *

_The Undercity_

"What the _nether_ was all that about?" Ras snarled as they departed from the Apothecarium. "First you betray me to the Undercity guards-"

"Oh come now, are you still upset about that? It was just a bit of fun."

"A _bit_ of _fun_? Do you have any idea what they do to people in there?" he exclaimed.

"Of course. Hence, the fun! Come now, Ras, you were a lich once! Surely you must see the irony."

"Yes, well, we'll see if I feel like pulling a similar prank the next time we're in Stormwind!" the mage hissed back. "What is the matter with you? Are you insane?"

Nathanos looked at him, and gave a wry smile. "I thought we established that a long time ago…"

Ras stared at his normally stoic companion, and then shook his head. "Regardless, you nearly got us killed."

"Yes, and you should be flattered," the ranger insisted. "I actually _do_ kill most people. Now, did you see where Flower got off to?"

"Pardon me, but I'm not the one who sent him off screaming into the Undercity."

Nathanos eyed him reproachfully, and then looked back out at the city. "Temper, temper… He can't be all that far. You know how easily he gets distracted. Oh, and by the way, your name is fairly well known in the Undercity. I suggest you take an alias, such as 'Sar Boilyeller'."

Ras arched a brow at the confusing ranger, and Nathanos smiled.

"What? Would you prefer I call you 'Fran'?"

"Sar will do just fine," the mage answered, tired of this confusing verbal debate. "And I think I see Flower."

Nathanos blinked. "Where?"

Ras lifted a hand, and pointed to where a laughing necromancer was playing piggyback on a very confused abomination.

"Oh, thank the gods," Nathanos murmured. "He hasn't gotten the puppy killed yet."

Ras blinked several times, and then looked in bewilderment at Nathanos. "How did you find a puppy in the Undercity?" he wondered aloud.

"Well, I used my eyes. And then, I followed the poo. And that's how I did it," Nathanos answered, and seemed unconcerned that this wasn't an answer at all.

* * *

_Theramore_

Kallah decided she liked Nobundo. He was friendly and old and strange, and he was defiantly very wise. She could spend hours asking him all kinds of questions, and he'd have an answer for almost all of them. Best of all, he never got annoyed!

He was also very peculiar to look at, and so Kallah couldn't help but stare at him. Daelin had only recently explained to her the difference between races. He'd told her about orcs, and he'd told her about humans, but he'd never told her about anything even vaguely resembling Nobundo. Needless to say, a large volume of Kallah's questions revolved around the Shaman's appearance.

"Why do you have only three fingers?" she asked. Nobundo blinked and his eyes dimmed slightly. He regarded one of his hands as if saddened by it, and then looked back at her.

"There are four kinds of Draenei," he said softly. "Most Draenei do not look like me. They are beautiful things, if I may so myself. Typically they have horns, broader faces than a human's. They are tall, and have legs much like mine. They have five fingers one each hand, and their feet end in hooves."

"Hooves?" she inquired. Nobundo paused and regarded the little child, surprised. She had apparently lived a _very_ sheltered life.

"Do you know what horses are?" he asked "Cows, goats?"

"Oh! Yes. They have hooves for feet?"

"Yes..."

"Okay, I know what those are! But, why don't you look like that? You have claws, and only three fingers... And no horns. Oh! And no nose!"

Nobundo winced. "I am what is called a Broken Draenei," he answered. "We have been damaged by bad magic. It has made us into something different- changed us from what we once were into something ugly and sick."

Kallah blinked, regarding Nobundo curiously. Sick- yes, she could see that. The same instinct that told her Nobundo was safe, also told him that something within him was hurt. But... "But you aren't ugly," she told him

He smiled a little sadly. "You have never seen a normal Draenei."

"Why do I need to? You are pretty to a human," she answered.

His smile became a little more genuine. "Regardless, I believe you came to ask me about your new earth totem?"

"Oh! Yes, how do I use it?"

"To use it, you must understand the earth, on which the totem calls- must speak to the earth spirit itself," he answered, sitting down cross-legged on the rug before his fireplace. Kallah plopped down before him. She was used to vague answers in shamanism, and her immediate willingness to listen hinted to Nobundo that she might have another teacher. "The earth beneath your feet forms the foundation for all things," he began. "The sky, the waters, even great fire - all rest upon its shoulders. While those others often form chaotic tempests, the earth abides. It grants strength and fortitude to the core of your being. Granted, being this high in a tower is probably not the best place to talk to the earth spirit- but you can do that at another time. You would not need me to be there."

This was familiar to Kallah- not phrased the same way, but familiar. She listened curiously, and knew instinctively that the story was at least as important as the answers she wanted.

* * *

_The Undercity_

The Undercity was a bit too crowded for Nathanos's purposes. Ras and Flower were liable to be stabbed by a passing rogue at any moment, and then Nathanos would have to go through all the trouble of finding a healer for them. Personally, he didn't feel it was worth the time. In light of this, he dragged them up to the old ruins of Lordaeron, where undead were scarce.

Flower had adopted one of the Undercity's abominations and renamed it "Pudgy Lumpkins". The two were currently playing fetch with Flower's new puppy by throwing one of Pudgy Lumpkin's ribs.

Ras was nagging at Nathanos again- something about irresponsible and Ketala and undead armies and the nether only knew what else because the Ranger Lord wasn't paying attention. Rather, Nathanos was looking at a large, elfin teleportation device. It sat quite innocently in an alcove off of Lordaeron's front courtyard. "Well, that's new," he reflected.

"Are you even listening to me?" Ras exclaimed in irritation.

"Of course not," Nathanos answered, his eyes fixed on the device. As he watched, the orb in the center of the device flared up, and a male elf appeared. His clothing was a dark red and his eyes burned green with the taint of magic.

"Then what- oh." Ras paused, eyeing the device as well. "Do you think it leads to Silvermoon?"

"I should hope so," the ranger decided, heading in the direction of the device.

This made Rase curious. "Oh?" he wondered aloud. "Does the all-powerful undead Ranger Lord miss his home?"

Nathanos gave the mage an incredulous look. "You ask stupid questions," he reflected. "Silvermoon is closer to Naxxramas."

Ras sighed resignedly, but then perked up as a better jibe occurred to him. "So, you don't miss your home. You miss Ketala."

"Blah, blah, blah."

"Nathanos and Ketala, sitting in a tree!" cried Flower, with untamed delight. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

The ranger's eyes grew wide, and a look of horror crossed over his face.

Flower seemed oblivious. "First comes love-" Nathanos twitched. "Then comes marriage!" Twitch-twitch. "Then comes a baby in a baby carriage! Yaayy!"

As Nathanos looked on the verge of breaking into an epileptic seizure, Ras gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Erm… Please don't kill Flower. I live for the moments he embarrasses you like this."

Flower continued to dance around, singing. "On top of spaghetti… all covered with cheese, I lost my poor meatball, when somebody sneezed! It rolled off of the table, and onto the floor-"

Pudgy Lumpkins began to dance as well, clapping his meaty hands and laughing stupidly. The puppy barked excitedly at their antics. "There was a man lived in the moon, in the moon, in the moon, there was a man lived in the moon and his name was Aikendrum! And he played upon a ladle, a ladle, a ladle! And he played upon a ladle, and his name was Aikendrum!"

Nathanos took in a deep breath, trying to repress the urge to kill the necromancer. "I suggest you keep Flower from annoying any elves too badly," he said quietly "They have a tendency to shoot fireballs at things they dislike, and I want to investigate Silvermoon."

Ras nodded. "A silence spell should hush him up. I just hope the abomination doesn't follow us."

"If it did, I might forgive him for his horrible singing voice."

Flower danced past them. "Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full! Two for the master and one for the dame, but none for Ranger Lord who cries in the lane!"

Nathanos eyed Flower a moment. "Let's just get this over with."

* * *

_Naxxramas_

Thaddius rammed his shoulder into the massive dragon, holding its jaws tightly closed in the crook of his other arm. The beast roared and bucked against him, trying to get into a position to do him damage. Its left wing battered vainly against his head, but failed to inflict any serious damage on his tough hide. His arms seized tightly around the dragon's head, wrestling with it, trying to tear it off.

Sapphiron roared and backhanded the giant abomination with one of its massive forearms, sending him backwards a dozen feet or so. To his credit, Thaddius did not release the Frostwyrm's head, and instead pulled the dragon along with him. His hands were slowly crushing the dragon's vertebrae. Frustrated and enraged, Sapphiron leapt at him, claws bared and grasping. Thaddius's green eyes widened. He put his shoulder into the dragon's eye socket, and threw its skull violently into its left arm, using its domed forehead like a shield. Its right claws slashed at him, but he freed a hand and grappled with them, holding the massive talons away from his face and abdomen.

Scythe-like nails closed around his wrist, digging into his plated gauntlets. Sapphiron growled and tried to wrench its head free of the titan's grip, with very limited success. Its claws found their way through past his metal plates and scratched at his tough yellow hide, but Thaddius grit his teeth and held on tightly to the giant wyrm. A few scratches on his wrist were nothing in comparison to what the dragon _could_ do to him.

Thaddius's advantage was in his weight, which was considerably greater than the skeletal dragon's. He was difficult to budge, impossible to lift, and could hold a defensive position almost indefinitely.

In an attempt to sway the battle to its own advantage, Sapphiron brought to bear its great tail, and swung it at the titan's broad shoulders. Thaddius noticed, and with a mighty heave he grabbed the dragon's head and rammed it onto the oncoming tail.

Sapphiron roared thunderously, flailing madly with its claws. Talons ripped into abomination flesh, tearing open stripes in Thaddius's broad back. The abomination cried out and stumbled away from the dragon, twisting around and trying to get away from the frenzied beast.

Sapphiron was content not to follow, as the creature was having difficulties dislodging its tail from its own forehead. It tugged and yanked, roared and struggled, but the tail blade would not come free.

Thaddius quivered and clutched at his aching back, feeling the gouges. He cried out at the touch and jerked his hand back in front of him. His fingers were stained with dark, mahogany-colored blood. His legs shook, and he looked around desperately for a moment. "Ketala!" he wailed, confused by the red coloring on his fingers and the pain in his back.

Ketala had been running towards Sapphiron, hoping that with her abilities she might be able to dispose of the creature. Upon hearing Thaddius's pained cry, however, she turned back to him and quickly darted to his side. "I'm here!" he told him. "I'm here, what is it?"

"H-hurts!" he cried, slipping to his knees with an earth-quaking rumble. Ketala fell to her rear in the aftershocks; she didn't quite have Nathanos's grace. The titan abomination reached forward swiftly, cupping his hands around her. Ketala blinked and quickly scrambled up into his palms, and he lifted her up and held her beside his shoulder, so she could view the wounds in his back. "Hurts!" he cried again, tears forming in his green eyes.

Ketala blinked and quickly scrambled onto his shoulder and placed her hands upon his flesh.

Again, the Holy Light heeded her call. It rushed around her like cascading waterfalls and spilled gracefully into the titan abomination, sealing his wounds and leaving him whole once more. Thaddius gave a started exclamation and then sighed in relief. He scooped Ketala off of his shoulder, and held her tight against his chest. "Thank you," he mumbled. He held her out and smiled at her, and then set her carefully back on the ground.

Sapphiron gave a mighty shriek, and then brutally tore its tail from its forehead, sending shard of bone flying in all directions. Half of its face had been destroyed in the struggle, but it had never looked so menacing. Its skeletal jaws opened wide, blue frost gathering in the back of its throat.

Thaddius gasped, charging to his feet and leaping at the dragon. Cunning even in death, Sapphiron chose not to truly utilize its breath weapon. Instead, it snapped its jaws closed around the abomination's arm. Teeth sank into Thaddius's yellow flesh and a small gout of frost snuck out between the monsters jaws, sending a numbing chill across his broad chest. The titan cried out in shock, balled his free hand into a fist, and slammed it into the side of the dragon's head with all his might. Bone fractured, and tortured vertebrae groaned. Sapphiron shrieked between its teeth, letting out another gout of frost and rearing up, bringing its claws to bear. Thaddius jerked backwards and at the same time delivered another crushing punch to the side of the Frostwyrm's head.

There was a startling crack. Claws sunk into yellow flesh; Thaddius screamed and stumbled backwards, holding lacerations in his chest, throat and face. In front of him, Sapphiron's headless body floundered around in confusion, unable to see, smell, or hear. Thaddius shuddered and looked down at his arm, where Sapphiron's mighty jaws were still clenched around his flesh. The dragon's eyes were empty sockets now, and no blue aura lingered in their depths.

Thaddius winced and ripped the head from his arm and dropped it with a clatter on the ground. His arm burned in pain, as did his face where the dragon had struck him. Warm blood trickled down his throat and chest, and he touched it with a worried expression on his face.

Ketala was charging towards Sapphiron, her swords flaming. This time, he did not call her back.

* * *

_Silvermoon_

Silvermoon was not as he remembered it.

Which was fine with Nathanos. The stench of demonic magic filled the air like a drug, and an aura of megalomania accompanied it. Green fires ranged from the lowest alleyways to the highest towers, a testimony to the race's dark present. On the streets, bits of magic were more valuable than gold. The city was sick, and so Nathanos had come to like it.

Just like him, it had fallen, had become corrupt. It was not the pure and shining Silvermoon of the past, but a red blemish on the landscape, hidden beneath a facade of pretty elfin faces. So, he reflected, _this_ was home. He could get used to it.

While Nathanos was attracted to the place, Ras Frostwhisper was obviously repulsed. It was the elves who had first taught the Kiren'Tor magic, and who had warned the humans about its dangerous and corrupting nature. Now it seemed those elves had forgotten all their culture and discipline, and had dissolved into power-hungry slobs. It sent a shiver down the mage's spine, but he tried not to judge them. After all, Ras had gone mad and turned to necromancy upon the death of his wife. He wasn't much better than them.

"So," the mage asked slowly. "Where are we going?"

"Looking around," Nathanos answered innocently, looking up at the city's golden trees, and reflecting on how they both complimented and contrasted the elfish buildings.

"You said this would be a good place to stage an attack on Naxxramas. So, isn't that what we're here for?"

"Yup."

"And how does looking around help with this?"

"I decide whether I'm going to stage the attack from here, or commit arson. How flammable do you think that mage tower is?"

"Considering its a mage tower, it's probably warded."

"On the outside, perhaps, but wizards are notorious for bad planning..."

"Bad planning! We must study all our lives to acquire the knowledge to cast our spells!"

"Exactly. Too much studying, and not enough doing, makes a person intelligent but unwise. You wouldn't believe how many wizard libraries have no wards against fire. And the spellbook you carry: Is _it_ warded?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Then stay up late tonight, or I'll toss it into a fireplace for you."

"Your ability to avoid subjects is practically an art form."

"Yes, well, I'm very careful to actually practice it, rather than just studying. "

"We practice constantly-!"

"Oh look, something shiny," Nathanos pointed out in loud monotone. He gravitated towards the blacksmith shop he'd discovered, completely ignoring the mage and silently delivering the message to 'shut up'. Ras sighed but gave in and trudged after the bizarre Ranger Lord.

Flower bounced happily after them, with Pudgy Lumpkins following in the rear. The Abomination's rotting flesh was blistering hideously in the warm Silvermoon sunlight. Those unfortunate elves who stood downwind of him quickly fled the scene, all the while gagging and pinching their noses.

Nathanos smiled happily at the spectacle that Pudgy was causing, and then sighed whimsically. "I think I could stay here for awhile," he noted.

Ras could only grimace in disapproval.

* * *

_Naxxramas_

Ketala's eyes whirled red as she urged her stronger, elemental heritage to take over. Power surged through, giving her unnatural speed and strength. She bolted up to the side of the dragon, and with a whirl of her blades and an utterance of "_Aero,_" she ran straight up the skeletal length of its arm. The dragon didn't notice her, still shaking its neck in frustration.

She slapped her blades together. "_Pyro,_" coated her blades in flame, and "_Lux_," brought a brilliant white light. Scimitars bit into bone, hacking at the undead creature's life-force. Thaddius's face brightened and he stepped towards Sapphiron again, eager to help his little sister. Over the sounds of battle, he heard a thick, ominous clicking noise. It was followed quickly by a clank, and a whoosh of air. The titan paused. These noises were familiar. He turned around, looking for the source, just as a tree-sized harpoon reached him.

There was no time to react. The barbed tip sank into his waist, pushed through him, shoved lung, liver, spleen all aside, cracked his steel ribs, glanced off of his metal spine. Thaddius tried to scream, but the sound came out as a tortured choke. Blood and bile rose in his mouth and he stumbled backwards, clutching the massive projectile.

Ketala's eyes flashed from red to yellow, and she jerked her head in Thaddius's direction. Her lips parted in horror. The titanic abomination stood there, weaving unsteadily on his feet, completely impaled by a ten foot harpoon. "THADDIUS!"

Green eyes looked at her in surprise, and then the abomination lost his footing and slipped to his knees. Ketala dropped from Sapphiron's back and bolted quickly in the titan's direction. "Thaddius!" she screamed. "Thaddius!"

In the distance, she could hear a ballista reloading. She could hear a clank, a woosh of air. Thaddius looked weakly in the sound's direction, just in time to see another harpoon sailing his way. He lifted a hand, trying to catch it, but missed. This one went through his stomach, bypassed his ribs entirely, passed straight through him, and exited on the other side.

He gave a tortured, strangled cry.

"THADDIUS!"

The Scourge seemed to have been waiting for Thaddius to fall. They swarmed him, throwing chains over his bulk and quickly binding him down, driving the harpoon further through him. He struggled vainly, weakly, and then just collapsed. A pool of his own blood slowly spread out beneath him.

"Thaddius!" Ketala screamed, rushing towards the scene. She was a fool for leaving his side- a fool for abandoning him, even for a moment. A fool for falling into her elemental heritage.

Mograine- Mograine!- met her charge. His horse leapt out from the confusion and started straight for her. He twirled his blade eagerly, a feral grin on his face. She remembered his words, his advice, his promise to aid her.

Ketala screamed in failure and pain, scraping her blades together and rushing to meet the deceptive highlord

In her emotional state, she did not feel the gargoyles coming up fast behind her her. Seven had darted into the hallway, clutching great nets in their gnarled talons, positioning them oh so carefully. When Mograin and Ketala were no less than ten yards from each other, the nets fell, one by one.

The first only entangled her feet, but served to knock her off balance. The second fell over her like a glass cup over an insect, trapping her entirely. The net's ropes were made of iron chains, and thick barbs pierce her skin. The weight was enormous. She screamed in pain, trying to slash the links apart and crying aloud to the Light.

Her pleas for divine aid were cut short by the weight of another net, and another after that. They bore her to the ground with their weight, pinning her helplessly against the ground. She strained against them, ripping up her arms and carving a hole out of her cheek, before starting to lift them off of her.

Mograine trotted up beside her, and gave a broad, insane smile. "Just a diamond in the rough," he murmured. "Strip away the rough, and all is cold and crystal beneath."

Ketala shrieked, trying to get to her feet.

Something heavy collided with her back, knocking the wind out of her. It smashed her to the ground and pinned her there, and when her sight came back into focus, she saw Sapphiron's claws wrapped tightly around her.

Ketala couldn't fail. Not then, not like that, not after she'd finally broken free of apathy. She screamed, fighting against her captor, peeling the nets from her damaged flesh, fighting, and yet unable to break free.

Only a hundred yards away, she could hear Thaddius whimpering in pain. "THADDIUS!" she wailed, just as defeated, just as helpless, just as hurt as he.

"Good work, Mograine," came a soft, frosty voice, and the form of a very familiar Litch hovered into view.

Ketala shivered and looked upward, into the eyes of her adoptive father, to Kel'Thuzad, the lich she had forsaken everything to save. Cold blue eyes looked back at her, and then turned away without evidencing the slightest sign of emotional discomfort. She stared at him, watching as he surveyed the damage to Sapphiron, and then as he turned to look at Thaddius.

"Everything is in order, I see. Very well then, kill the Abomination."

"Daddy!" Ketala cried in protest, tears slipping down her face. Kel'Thuzad glanced at her, and she lifted an arm as best she could, stretching it out imploringly to the lich. "Please! Please, don't hurt him!"

He regarded her a moment, and then looked away.

"Daddy! Daddy, please!"

For a long time all was the chatters of ghouls and the meaty steps of abominations. Then there was a great, organic thud, a piercing noise, and the sound of spurting blood.

Ketala could do nothing but scream.

Far away in Silvermoon, Nathanos experienced a cold shudder. He frowned at the sensation and then shrugged it off without a second though. A more dramatically inclined individual might have taken it as a bad omen.

* * *

Nathanos roles for Sense-Drama and gets a 1. Epic Fail.


	17. Affection

Hey guys! Hope you like the next chapter :P Don't worry, I've no intent of giving up on this fic any time soon. It just took me awhile to get that impulse to write that I needed. I refer to such impulses as "Flow." To be honest, I think I contracted it by reading "Forsaken" by Lurking Grue... You should all read it and attempt to contract Flow as well! The Author was putting out chapters at the rate of 1 to 2 a day, and all of them were high quality and awesome! Now I want to be Lurking Grue!

I don't have any art for this chapter, but I should have some for /next/ chapter. I've also got some art from my novel, as well as art from my side project, Children of Aiur. I just uploaded a new pic off Sasha and Danial, yayy!

I'm currently looking for a good Beta to help me out. My normal Beta is very busy right now, and while she is infinitely uber in her uberness, I need someone to help me with spelling, grammar, sentance structure, and- well- just plain good storytelling while she's gone. I think of myself as a good writer, but a writer is only as good as their beta! Can any of my readers assist me?

Well, anyway, Happy reading!

PS: Dear Arallion. I'm sorry my chapter starts with passive writing. I didn't mean to do it! It just happened!

* * *

_**Affection**_

* * *

Silvermoon

Much to Nathanos's surprise, he was not questioned for bringing humans into Silvermoon. The guards seemed ambivalent about their presence, and with a member of the Horde escorting them, they had better things to do.

That was the nice thing about blood elves, he decided. They hated everyone with equal prejudice, looked down upon everyone with the same arrogance, and could scarcely tell the difference between a human and an orc.

He supposed this was reasonable of them. The elves had fought against the orcs. They hated trolls. Their homeland was overwhelmed by undead. They were looked down upon by the night elves. The humans had abandoned them. The dwarves hated them.

Really, from a blood elfish point of view, faction lines were probably blurred. They were only part of the Horde as a matter of convenience, and because the Alliance no longer wanted them. All they cared about was magic, and as long as you didn't stand _between _them and their magic, they would accept your existence... however begrudgingly.

This was useful for Nathanos, who needed a place to store two humans until they became of use to him again. Ras and Flower were both technically human, and Nathanos wasn't keen on flying halfway across the world to Rachet or Stranglethorn in order to leave them in an unaffiliated city. And he _really_ wasn't going to track down the Argent Dawn for that purpose. Also, due to Flower's status as a necromancer, he couldn't rightly leave them in an Alliance city.

All it took was a few extra pieces of gold, and Silvermoon's inn was happy to house two humans. He suspected that they'd be a glaring target for thieves, but otherwise it seemed relatively safe. They weren't in poor standing with the elfin leaders, and had no interesting information to communicate.

Sadly, Pudgy Lumpkins had to return to the Undercity. Nathanos was thankful he'd gotten them a puppy, or Flower might have cried himself to death.

Or would that have been a good thing? Hmm. Well, in any event, Nathanos was happy to use his residual necromantic abilities to lead the abomination home. He had avoided Naxxramas for long enough.

He'd need a plan to get into the flying ziggurat. It was time to speak with Sylvanas.

* * *

Naxxramas

_NO! NO, I AM NOT YOURS!_

She screamed in agony as the necromancer jabbed the long syringe into her right eye and pressed down on the plunger. Acid poured into the orb, causing it to burn in unworldly pain. It fizzled and flamed, before finally bursting in several places and starting to lick white ichor. The acid poured out as well, drizzling over her face like tears, burning her skin and leaving tracks where it had fallen.

Her screams echoed throughout Naxxramas's halls, ungodly, broken, lost.

_I'm not... Oh Light... Light... I'm not..._

The light didn't come. It had always come before, and yet she could not feel its golden rays surging through her. She had lost it somehow, back with her freedom. Back with Thaddius.

Thaddius.

Tears coursed from her undamaged eye, and her whole body reeled with the agony. As the acid burned its course, a multicolored pinpoint of light slowly manifested in the depths of her skull, and her eyesight returned.

Dead eyes.

"_Ketala..."_ the icy voice murmured, gentle, soothing.

_No._

The syringe descended into her other eye.

As he walked towards the prison cells, Cheshire smiled. The screams were almost beautiful, like heavenly music coursing through the air. Ketala didn't know how lucky she was. _He_ had lost his eyes before joining the Scourge, and _now_ he had to use a horribly inconvenient magical sight.

Some people had all the luck and none of the gratitude. Oh well. He whistled merrily to himself, before at last arriving at her cell door. Her tormentors were just leaving, and they shot Cheshire an irritated look as they past.

Cheshire didn't mind. He had a certain fondness for any undead that still retained a personality.

Ketala huddled helplessly within the confines of her cell, her face streaked with burns and ichor. Her body was curled up almost fetally, and her hair shielded her face, clinging to her fresh wounds.

Chesire smiled, showing off unpleasant rows of pointed teeth. He descended into her cell, carrying a bucket of cool water, along with a small satchel and some rags. She did not react to his presence, not even when he knelt by her side and moistened one of his rags- not even when he leaned over and examined his face.

He pouted. "Hmph. Again, nothing. Can you hear me, or see me? Have you any idea that I'm here?"

There was no response. If Ketala was aware of his presence, she gave no sign. Cheshire sighed, and looked around to see if he was being watched by her torturers. He wasn't, so he leaned down further, and placed his tongue to her cheek, licking fried eyeball goop from her ruined face.

She tasted wonderful, but that was not the purpose for his dubious-looking ministrations. The true reason for his behavior was that he could clean her face more efficiently this way. Furthermore, he was so permeated with necromantic energy that his very saliva acted as a barrier against rot and decay.

Ketala also sported a gaping tear in her cheek, a leftover from the barbed nets that had ensnared her. Although he had healed the rest of her wounds, Cheshire found the tear to be quite charming. It gave her a constant, one-sided smile. He licked gently at that wound, ensuring that it was protected from the elements.

It took him some time to finish, but then he sat back and admired his handiwork. "There. You're so beautiful, and your eyes were the prettiest part. Its a shame he had to ruin them." He smiled gently, if a bit carnivorously, and then took one of his rags and started mopping the blood and grime from her extremities. Her feet had been whipped and burned, so he carefully cleaned out each slice, and then applied a home-made spell to close them shut.

Her feet twitched slightly, a reflexive action, and Cheshire smiled. This was a good sign. "Maybe I can regenerate your eyes once this is over," he reflected. "It shouldn't be that hard. The mechanisms for such a spell are fairly simple..."

She didn't move, lost in her own little world. He mused for a moment, and then sighed and stood. "Well. See you tomorrow," he said at last, and he gave her a little wave before turning and heading back out of her cell.

* * *

The Undercity

As he entered the Royal Quarter, Nathanos eyed Varimathras curiously, noting that the demon was still heavily bandaged, but nevertheless quite alive. This was something of a surprise to Nathanos, who had expected (and hoped) that Sylvanas had cannibalized the majordomo.

On the other hand, Ketala _had_ said that Sylvanis had a 'thing' for her demonic advisor.

"I see you're doing better than last time we met, ex-Nathrezeim!" Nathanos said with a saccharine smile. "But Sylvanas, I'm surprised you forgave him. Is he that good at make-up sex?"

If glares could kill people, Nathanos would have imploded on the spot. The looks of sheer vexation on both leaders' faces were priceless. The Ranger Lord smiled innocently, and continued without missing a beat. "Silvermoon will make the best staging point for an assault on Naxxramas. I don't need an army. I need small, a proficient group of intelligent, capable warriors. That's all."

Sylvanas snorted. "Easier said than done, Blightcaller. My absence has weakened the city, and the Apothecaries did not keep things well-organized or well-supplied in your stead." If she had attempted to make him feel ashamed, she did not succeed. Nathanos just continued smiling innocently. "Aside from that," she continued, annoyed, "people who fit your definition of 'skilled' are few and far between."

Nathanos nodded. "Agreed. So you are fortunate that, in my absence, I have already collected such a group."

Sylvanas lifted a brow. "Indeed?"

"The same group that helped me defeat C'Thun in Silithus. They are competent enough, and listen to orders. If you get me into contact with Jaina Proudmoore, I can probably get most of them here. Some members of the group not come, but the rest are just adventurers, restless and always seeking something new to kill. We can fill the holes in their ranks with Forsaken."

Sylvanas eyed him critically. Rarely did Nathanos speak highly about soldiers; when he did speak favorably, he meant it. After a moment, the Dark Lady nodded, and guestured to to Varimathras. "I will contact Proudmoore. The two of you are concoct a fully-realized plan for the infiltrating of Naxxramas, with no detail left out. Behave, Nathanos. Behave Varimathras. If either of you cause problems for me or for each other, there will be a price.

Nathanos nodded, accepting the threat for what it was. Varimathras grimaced and did so as well. Sylvanis glared long and hard at the both of them, before turning and exiting the Royal Quarter. Ranger lord and majordomo watched her go, before looking back at one another. Nathanos smiled, and Varimathras glared.

"Must have been really good sex."

"Is your mind constantly in the gutter?" the demon hissed. "Or are you just incapable of taking anything seriously?"

"Oh come now, Varimathras, that hurts. I took your torture quite seriously. Besides, I'm not the one having sex with my boss."

"I am not- augh!" Varimathras threw up his arms in disgust and turned to his war table, gesturing to a map of Naxxramas. "_You_ may feel that this is all a joke, but I assure you that Naxxramas will take more planning than just waltzing in its doors and slapping your primitive weapons at whatever you come across! If you will not be serious about this, then _leave_-"

"Varimathras," the ranger said slowly, quietly. His tone was so completely devoid of mirth that Varimathras looked back at him, surprised. "You have already betrayed Sylvanas once. If you f"ck with me getting Ketala back, you will beg for the torture pits of the Burning Legion."

He was a bit tired of all these threats being tossed so carelessly around, but the dead-panned, intense nature of the Ranger Lord's proclamation seemed fully in earnest.

Varimathras smiled.

"Really good sex?" he inquired nastily.

"Really good sex," Nathanos affirmed without missing a beat. Whether he was serious about _that_ or not was irrelevant; by default it was the answer the Ranger Lord had to give.

"Very well. If you cease irritating me, I assure that you will be able to free Ketala Truae."

"So be it," the Ranger Lord answered, and he came up to study the maps.

* * *

Outland, the Warden's Cage

_I remember the Temple as it used to be: a place of worship._ _I prayed within its chambers and meditated among its gardens. I was happy then; at peace. I remember, too, the day the orcs came. That day marked by cries of war and torrents of blood where terrified women and children huddled in darkened corners. I led many to safety, but many more paid the ultimate price._

_That day my beloved sanctuary became the Black Temple. There the orc warlocks practiced their twisted magic that corrupted the land and nearly destroyed us all. Even after the Horde's reckless sorcery tore the planet apart, my people were unable to find a lasting sanctuary. I remember the armies of demons that swept down on us like a plague. During these dark times, the one called Magtheridon made the Temple his home._

_Then came Illidan..._

_The one they called the Betrayer; the enemy of my enemy. We helped him seal the portals of Outland and cut off the Legion's reinforcements. We fought with renewed strength, and together we reclaimed our sacred ground. I think part of me knew even then, that the Black Temple had only traded one evil master for another. I prefer to remember the Temple as it used to be; not the abomination it has become. My soul bears the burden of my misjudgment, but I have been patient; I have been waiting. And when the time is right, the Betrayer will become... the betrayed._

Akama's eyes opened slowly. He blinked several times and then realized he had dozed off. A grimace twisted his fanged mouth, and he sighed. With how little sleep he got these days, his impromptu nap was no surprise.

"It's ironic, isn't it?" a low voice murmured, feminine, echoing off the depths of her prison. Akama blinked and looked at the door of her cell. Her voice was thick, filled with emotion, passion, hatred. "Kael'Thas Sunstrider. He was the one who told Malfurion that I had lied about Tyrande. Furion turned on me and accepted Illidan's aid to rescue his beloved wife. I remember the blood elf then. I had been unwilling to aid him. He seemed so petty, so _weak_, but Tyrande had called him one of us, had refused to leave him."

She sighed. "He was idealistic then, hoping he could give his people a better life. Hoping to save them. And look where he is now. So far away. So broken. So twisted. I wonder if that's when Illidan learned who he was, and to start keeping tabs on him. Kael refused to lie or sit back and let _me_ lie. And only because of Kael was Illidan able to reconcile with his brother and save Tyrande.

"The fool demon probably _really _thought he was _helping_ Kael'thas by extending the offer of this magical slavery. _Felt _like he was returning the favor. And look how he's destroyed him. "

Akama was silent, watching her as she languished in her righteous fury, still fully armored and yet completely helpless. After a moment, he decided to speak. "Nothing is ever black and white, Maiev. No matter how much you might wish it to be so."

The warden snorted and glared at him, luminescent eyes blazing from the depths of her masked helm. "You know its the truth. He corrupts everything he touches. He is nothing more than a demon, and yet you will not free me. If we truly desire the same thing, Akama, then release me! If Illidan is to die, it shall be by my hand!"

Akama sighed and stretched out his limbs, trying not to wince at his arthritic joints. "In due time, Maiev. I've spent years planning to make my move - I can't afford to put my plans in peril by tipping my hand too soon."

Her eyes flamed and she jumped to her feet, splashing through the water that lined the bottom of her cell. "Curse you, Akama! I am not a pawn in your game...my will is my own. When I unleash my wrath upon Illidan, it will have nothing to do with your foolish scheme!"

The Broken draenie looked sadly up at her and shook his head. He wondered if Maiev was aware of how... _damaged_ she sounded, of how her mind had frayed and torn at the seams. She behaved like a hungry animal, a weapon, an avatar of vengeance and nothing more. Once, surely, there must have been a woman behind that mask.

Now there was only hatred.

"In due time, Maiev. Only in due time."

He looked away, prepared for her insults, her fury, her accusations. 'Monster,' was her favorite appellation, although she knew many more colorful ones. And he supposed she was not far off the mark.

Oftentimes he felt like a monster.

"Look at what he has done to your people, Akama. Look at how he asks you to herd your fallen cousins, to use as slaves and test subjects."

He paused. If he had still possessed hair, it would have stood up along the back of his neck. As it was, the fleshy tendrils sprouting from the back of his head stiffened.

"How can you do that? How can you let let him force you to do that? They are not so far from you, are they? You have fallen further than all other Broken draenie- that's why you hide beneath layers of cloth, why you cover your face in that old hood. You are ashamed, even among the Broken.

Akama closed his eyes, and then turned back to Maiev. She was standing directly against the bars, and so he walked up to her and studied her carefully. Her face was mostly obscured, but he could still see the lines of her mouth, confused and frustrated beyond measure.

"Maiev, if you were confronted by a village of the Lost Ones, you would slaughter them, and claim that you were putting them out of their misery. If you were confronted by a village of elves in the same position, you would slaughter them. You do not feel sympathy, warden. At least I mourn at the suffering of my brethren. But then my very presence disgusts you to the point that you would rather kill me than heed my words, so perhaps my breath is wasted."

Her eyes flamed once more, but she had no verbal response. So incoherent was her rage that she could not even begin to talk about Naisha, or all the wardens who had died in her pursuit of Illidan. She grit her teeth, thousands of emotions whirling through her. Lightning fast, she moved, her hands shooting through the cell bars, grabbing at his throat, sharp-gauntlets shimmering in the torchlight.

Akama moved faster, grabbing her by the wrists and holding her metal talons at bay. She screamed and twisted in his hold, jerking herself wildly until finally slumping before him, defeated. Akama watched her a moment, and then released her hands and continued speaking in his low gravely voice, as if nothing had happened.

"But hear this. My sins are my own, and I know them intimately. I can only atone for them if Illidan is defeated. And you can only defeat him if I set the stage right. It is not time, Maiev. I will wait for the perfect moment. I will not squander my only chance. My poor brethren will not have suffered in vain."

She could not wait! Why couldn't he see that? Illidan had nearly killed her brother- had consumed her entire life and her sanity in the process. She could not wait! Her quarry could not be denied! Akama's plan could take years- countless years- and every _moment_ her agony grew.

Maiev had to destroy him. She _had_ to!

There had to be some way to get Akama to free her. Something- anything!- that would spring her from this dismal prison, with its laughing demons and rotting water. But if neither emotion nor reason would sway her grotesque guardian than what would-

An idea struck her, an idea so repulsive it almost made her gag, but one that her desperation forced her to try.

She lunged forward again, this time from a kneeling position so he could not restrain her in time. Now, however, she did not attempt to strike or otherwise injure him. Rather, her hand pushed up his kilt, and came to rest on the Broken's inner thigh. Akama grabbed her forearm just a moment later and froze, staring at her with wide eyes.

The expression on her face- at least what he could see of it- was utterly pathetic. She was crazed and desperate, craving her vengeance to the exclusion of all else. Although he did not desire to be hamstrung, his dismay forced him to speak:

"Are you now a whore, Maiev Shadowsong?"

His fears were confirmed when she evidenced no shame, and said only: "I will be anything if it will make you release me."

Akama stared at her in awe and revulsion. After a moment he released her arm, and stepped backwards out of her reach. Fortunately, she did not try to harm or restrain him. Once she was no longer touching him he shook his head and sighed, readjusting his clothing. "Then it is you who are Lost and Broken," he said softly. "Not I."

* * *

Naxxramas

Ketala's mind might have been broken, but her will still held on by a thin thread. It would break, soon enough. The instant it did, the Scourge would have a new death knight. But it would take just a little longer to push her over that final edge.

Cheshire dabbed gently at her face, wiping off blood and grime. He cleaned the insides of of her empty eye-sockets and wiped gently over the burns and tear in her cheeks. She stirred slightly and her undead eyes focused on him, pinpoints of multicolored light.

He smiled from ear to ear. His mouth was impossibly wide and filled to the brim with sharp, needle-like teeth. "Good morning sunshine," he cooed, pushing matted hair out of her face. "How are you feeling?"

She said nothing, just staring at him. Her tear ducts had been damaged, but saline liquid oozed out of one of her eye sockets all the same. Tears. He smiled and dabbed them off her cheek.

"Not so good, eh? There, don't cry. Nothing's going to be alright, but crying certainly wont solve your problems."

More tears slithered down her cheek, and he dabbed them up as well

"There, there. I'm taking care of you. I don't mind that you're crazy."

Crazy. She was crazy, she supposed. It was the only adjective that could describe the utter chaos in her mind. The total devastation, disillusionment, nightmares, failure, hallucinations, hmm, yes, 'crazy'.

He leaned over her and touched his lips gently to her brow. Her eyes dimmed momentarily in response to the strange affection, and then looked at him again.

"Cheshire," she said hollowly, recalling the name from the depths of her cluttered subconscious. "Like the cat, from the story..."

His face brightened into one of his trademark grins, and he nodded. "Yes. I tend to your wounds every day. I'm not really a priest, but I've had some training in the discipline, and I've been able to develop some arcane spells for healing."

She nodded. That sounded familiar.

"Mograine visits too. I think he enjoys the opportunity to walk."

Mograine. Her eyes dimmed, and she looked off at nothing again, drowning in unpleasant memories.

"Oh, hey, hey! Don't do that, don't _do_ that!" He shook her shoulder, and she temporarily resurfaced from the depths of her mind, looking at him uncertainly. "If you do that, this'll all take longer, and worse: I won't have anyone to talk to!"

She stared at him unblinking. He smiled, and stroked through her hair.

"I wont talk about things that upset you, then. Oh I'd almost forgot! I think you could use some fuel, so I brought you a little something to munch on." He began rummaging around in his robe for this 'something'.

Ketala stared at him, half expecting him to pull a human cadaver out from one of his pockets. To her surprise, he produced a pie. A _real_ pie, a fruit pie by the looks of it, a pie still in its pie-dish, with strips of dough laid over top of it in a lattice.

"Tada! I baked it myself!" He smiled brightly at her, and held the pie in front of her face. When she did not respond, he cut off a small sliver for her, and brought it to her mouth. She was still a long moment before parting her lips and accepting the morsel.

There was definitely something unpleasant in that pie- probably meat scraps or blood, she couldn't tell which... But the primary ingredient was apples. He pushed another portion to her face, and she ate that as well. Cheshire smiled at this, and kissed her brow once more.

A small, maddened part of Ketala's remind, reflected that if she had this mage's silly antics to look forward to, damnation couldn't be as terrible as she had previously thought.

* * *

The Undercity

Sylvanas had used a mage to send a message to Jaina Proudmoore, and could only wait for the woman to respond. She could have sent any of her servants to perform this task, but had gone herself for a very calculated reason.

Varimathras and Nathanos would need to work together for the attack on Naxxramas to succeed. Sylvanas had to gage their reaction to one another, and determine what needed to be done before they could proceed. Needless to say, she was quite surprised to find both of them working in harmony, flipping through maps and tossing suggestions rapidly between one another.

This was promising. Apparently Nathanos wanted Ketala back more than he wanted to piss off Varimathras. She waited at the entrance to the room, not wanting to disturb the peace, and watched as they planned.

When they were finished, Nathanos turned around and gave Sylvanas an elegant bow, as if he had known she was there all along.

He probably had.

In any event, he smiled at her and started on his way out. "I best make sure my comrades have not been eaten by the elves yet. Shame how they all went crazy, hmm? I guess you got out lucky. You died before they became a bunch of corrupt, bloodthirsty parasites." He winked at her and then walked past. Sylavanas's eyes opened wide and her mouth contorted into a snarl. Nathanos had_ never_ behaved so out of line before!She reached down to her belt, and drew out a dagger, her whole body tensing, readying for battle.

Clawed hands closed around her own, and she looked up to find Varimathras standing beside her, shaking his head. "He's not worth it, milady. And he's useful to you. When this is over, he will remember where his loyalties lie." She snarled and shoved the demon away before stalking off to her quarters, emanating an aura of hatred and, dare he say it, despair.

Varimathras frowned lightly, but did not follow. He had no love for Nathanos Blightcaller... But he knew well that Naxxramas needed to fall. She knew that as well. And if Nathanos had defeated an Old God, if he had slain C'Thun... Then there was no one better-equipped for the task.

* * *

Naxxramas

Chesire nursed her back to health, not just physically but also emotionally. Each day she would bare the marks of her refusal to submit, and each day he would come and tend to them, soothing the pain and talking to her, comforting her in a way.

It had gotten to the point where she would wait for him to arrive, no longer huddled in the fetal position, but sitting upright, eager for a sign of him. He still had a spirit, a personality, and he seemed to care for her. That was more than anyone else could claim.

A horrible voice in the back of her head remembered what Kel'Thuzad had done to her, and implored her not to trust this mage. Another voice argued that Arthas would take him from her if she seemed to enjoy his presence too much. But another part, a far stronger part, needed to care for _someone_, _something_, and Cheshire was all there was. Every day she sat there, wondering if _this _time he would not come.

Every day he came in smiling, and tended to her. The mage would clean out her wounds and heal them, and wash out any area where rot was likely to form. He'd speak to her, asking her questions and talking about almost anything. Cheshire had a great gift for small-talk. He never even mentioned Naxxramas, Thaddius, Mograine, Arthus, Kel-Thuzad- none of those things. Rather, he spoke to her about cooking, small annoyances in the real world, innocent pet peeves, scenery, geography, and the general silliness of life and unlife in general.

Ketala watched him, and added small comments of her own. He was a tad unsettling, with his candied, often sarcastic demeanor, and his far too-optimistic outlook on her position, but he was company either way. She could even ignore the steel belts wrapped around his face, and the black oozed that leaked from between them, from where his eyes should have been.

At the moment he was sitting behind her and brushing her hair, carefully tidying her blue-black tresses. The amount of time and effort he spent on this task was staggering. Despite his best efforts, Ketala had lost most of her life-like characteristics, and her hair would fall out if he dared brush too firmly or quickly.

For some reason, the idea of her hair falling out upset Cheshire, and she didn't question him as to why. Cheshire rarely made much sense. He'd also neglected to heal her fingers from the various wounds they'd sustained. Instead, he'd filed the bones to points, so she sported a set of claws. Although she didn't find them nearly as exciting as he did, she decided not to comment.

After a moment, he stroked gently over her burn-streaked face, and he smiled. "You're so pretty," he said happily, like a child with an adorable pet cat. Ketala regarded him.

"How can you see me?" she inquired.

"Magic," he answered wryly, wiggling his fingers mysteriously in the air.

Ketala smiled. Just a bit, just a corner of her mouth twitching upward. It was more than enough for him, and he beamed happily and went back to brushing her hair. She was content to let him do so. It was comforting.

Heavy boots crunched against the cobblestone floor, descended down the staircase into her cell. Ketala blinked, and looked slowly towards the newcomer. Her whole body tensed as she saw who it was.

Mograine.

"You..." she whispered, standing immediately. Cheshire protested her movements and narrowly avoided yanking half her hair out. Ketala sported manacles and was chained, albeit loosely, to the wall. The metal links rattled over the ground behind her.

Mograine docked his head to the side, his hair shifting with his movements, a curious expression on his face. "Me?" he asked, intrigued by how she would respond.

Her eyes began to whirl hotter colors- yellows and oranges, even the occasional red. "You backstabbing, traitorous, spiteful monster..." she whispered, taking a slow step towards him, then another. She was a little unsteady on her feet.

Mograine smiled broadly, and gave a light bow. "Why, thank you. That was a charming compliment."

Ketala screamed, launching herself at him. The heavy chains were just long enough, stretched just far enough for her to reach. She slammed into him at full force, uncertain what she'd do after that but wanting, beyond anything else, to _hurt_ him. To make him suffer, to make him pay for his deception, for tricking her, for causing her to fall, for losing her poor Thaddius...

She wanted him to suffer. Mograine grunted as she hit him, but stood his ground, unmoving. She screamed, tearing at his armor and clothes, at his skin. She was injuring him, drawing putrid blood with her sharpened fingers. He grimaced and winced but did nothing, watching her face, looking into her eyes. She shook, choked, shivered, screamed, and finally just collapsed, overwhelmed.

The ex-highlord blinked and caught her around the middle, holding her up and pressing her tightly against him, supporting her as she cried. He was cold- horribly cold- but _someone_ was holding her. Coagulated blood oozed down his armor. The room was silent aside from her sobs.

"Y-you deceived me," she whimpered.

"I recall no such thing," the horseman responded, and he seized part of his ruined tabbard to wipe the tears from her face. She slapped his hand away and glared murderously up at him.

"You deceived me!"

"I told you to kill yourself," he corrected. "_You_ chose this. Just as I told you that you would, just as I told you Arthas wanted. You don't listen very well, do you?"

"You turned against me! You kept me from Thaddius!" she screamed.

"As you knew I would. If Kel'Thuzad couldn't defy the Lich King for you, how could I?"

She bit her lip so hard that she drew blood, and started shivering violently. Kel'Thuzad. Her parent. Her parent who loved her and yet let himself hurt her child and kill the things she loved. Tears drizzled down from her empty eye sockets, coating her burnt cheeks. Sobs built up in her throat, followed by wails and gasps for air she did not need. She dissolved, her brain melted under the strain, and she sagged in his arms all while crying uncontrollably.

Mograine grunted and stopped trying to wipe the tears away. Instead he wrapped both arms around her, just holding her.

"Shh," he murmured softly. He even bounced her slightly- or jostled her at least- and rubbed her back. He'd been a father once, after all. It made sense that he should remember such actions, mundane as they might be. Ketala just cried more. "Shhh... Shh..."

* * *

The Undercity

Sylvanas leaned over her majordomo's shoulder, watching as he planned out strike teams and reviewed intelligence reports. He glanced briefly at her but then went back to his work. An order needed to be delivered to Hillsbrad, and he drew out some paper and began to write, his loping handwriting filling the page. She looked calmer now, with Nathanos gone and no one to insult or rile her up. Her interest seemed innocent enough.

Sylvanas smiled to herself, lifted a hand to one of his horns and rubbed gently over the base. He did not stop writing, but his eyes closed to slits, a reflection of his appreciation. He signed the order and looked at her, bemused.

Inwardly he winced at the haughtiness of his own expression. Humility never came easily to him. Throwing himself on Sylvanas's mercy had been one of the most difficult things he'd ever done. But, it had worked... and he did not want to spoil his good fortune.

"May I inquire as to the occasion?" he asked, trying to keep all humor and irritation out of his voice.

"There isn't one. But I am pleased to have you back, demon," she answered, as if he were a prized hunting dog. "I've decided I'm happy with how things turned out in Northrend."

He blinked uncertainly, turning to look completely at her. "Milady?"

"You wasted your chance at betrayal on a blind and unthinking whim, instead of spending the time to plan out something more thoughtful."

He could not help but grimace in disdain and annoyance, even as she leaned over and touched her chill lips to his brow. "That's not entirely true," he growled.

She smirked nastily. "How so?"

"I did, indeed, 'throw away' my chance at betrayal on Arthas's promises. But I _had_ taken the time to plan out something more thoughtful."

Sylavanas grinned even more. "So you just threw a temper tantrum and took the shortest, _easiest_ route? You had a whole plan ready, and you threw it all away on _that_?"

His eyes narrowed and his response was instantaneous: "I assure you, I will not make the same mistake again!"

She lifted a brow.

He bit his tongue, and shrunk back an inch. To one extent, his subservience made his skin scrawl. He, a Nathrezeim, subservient to this undead mortal! But another, far wiser part of him, knew well that his life rested on her mercy. And he had just spoken as if he intended to overthrow her in the near future.

Sylvanas was silent a long moment, before a wry smile twisted over her lips.

"Varimathras, Varimathras... For a demon, you are surprisingly easy to manipulate. It's very easy to get under your skin."

There was just something about that, something in the superior way she'd chosen to speak that brought out the worst in him. She had a certain power over him, coupled with a keen understanding of his moods and psyche. He lifted her eyes back to hers, a black scowl darkening his face, foul words bubbling up his throat, forming on the tip of his tongue. The fallen elf smiled further, and lowered her hands, resting them against the bases of his wings and pressing firmly. He grimaced, and then sighed as she started moving her hands in a circular fashion, in a massage. Foul words were left unspoken.

"Sylvanas," he murmured helplessly, at a loss for how to respond to any of this. "Please stop toying with me. I've had a rough year. Two years." She smiled blissfully, resting her cheek against against his spine, and rubbing firmly, soothingly, around the circumferences of his wing arms.

"But you're so fun to toy with, demon," she answered. "I'd have gone mad long before now had I not the ability to take my frustrations out on you."

He looked as if he had just swallowed something particularly unpleasant, but did not stop her. In light of this, she continued, running her fingers along the length of his wings, rubbing over the newly regenerated muscles and joints. They were already stiff and cramped from stress and disuse. Each shifted and fanned slightly at her touch, an instinctive gesture.

Pleasure mixed with disgust on Varimathras's face. He just hoped Sylvanas didn't arbitrarily try to stab him or something.

_Why are you acting like this?_ He wondered, but did not dare to voice the question aloud. _You seem so uncharacteristically happy- so far from the hollow spirit I saw just a few days ago. Is this an effect I have on you, or something else? You told me you did not care for me._

For once, it seemed she wasn't reading his mind. He sighed, and just enjoyed the affection while it lasted.

Sylvanas continued until he was practically nodding off, and then abruptly pulled back and turned to depart. He blinked and looked back at her, and then on a spur of the moment decision, reached out and grabbed her arm She paused and looked back at him, lifting a brow.

Varimathras stared at her a long moment before turning in his seat and lifting both his hands to her, pressing gently against the muscles around her shoulder blades. Her eyes brightened in surprise but she did not move, allowing him to rub and massage over her back, watching as he took great care not to scratch her with his talons. Every movement he made was careful, planned, deliberate. Demonic, really, but that was a less flattering adjective for a very pleasing attention.

His hands were considerably larger than hers, and her frame was considerably smaller. Furthermore, he had to move awkwardly, so as not to stab her with his fingernails. Even so, he did his best to return the affection, rubbing along her shoulder blades, shoulders, and spine.

Her eyes closed to slits.

He took that as a sign he had succeeded.

* * *

Theramore

When Jaina returned home, Thrall was with her, presumably to pick up Kallah. The two parents would generally trade her every other week, so she spent and equal time with each of them. Daelin wondered how this had worked when Kallah was a baby. Somehow, the thought of Thrall changing baby diapers amused him, and dissolved some of his hatred for the filthy orc.

Every time he saw the Warchief, he wanted to take his scimitar and run the orc through. He supposed that the feeling was mutual, but still. An orc. The enemy of his people. One of the monsters who had ravaged his homeland and destroyed all he stood for. Just standing in the same _room_ as Thrall felt dirty, traitorous, disgusting.

But, at the same time, something compelled him to trust Jaina.

Maybe it was Kallah. She seemed to have a pacifying affect on him.

Speaking of which, the moment the two leaders walked in the door Jaina's chambers, the little girl has leapt to her feet and bolted up to them. Daelin blinked from where he was sitting on one of Jaina's couches.

"Daddy! Mommy! When I grow up, I want to be a pirate, like grandpa!"

A pirate-? Daelin slapped a hand over his face and groaned. A pirate, indeed.

Thrall blinked and looked baffled at the little girl. She was still wearing Daelin's hat, and had stolen her mother's rain boots and rain jacket to complete the slightly sailor-ish ensemble. A grin broke out over the orc's face, and he picked Kallah up and hoisted her over his head, laughing. "I see that! But what happened to being a shaman? Or a mage?"

"I will be all three!" the little girl proclaimed, throwing her arms in the air. "I will be a Shamagerate!"

Thrall burst out laughing and held her close, and she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly in return. Jaina grinned and came over to Daelin.

"Still alive?" she asked curiously.

He dropped his hand and looked up at her, leonine face forming a scowl. "Don't ever do that to me again," he answered grumpily.

She smiled broadly in return, and leaned over to hug him. He accepted the affection in a begrudging manner, and even managed to hug back. "Thank you, father," she murmured. "I really needed your help."

"Babysitting. Babysitting a half orc."

"Perhaps. But no one could have done it but you," she answered with filial affection. He huffed but accepted this consolation. She squeezed him gently, not minding his unnatural chill, and then pulled back and went up to Thrall, so they could co-spoil their little girl.

It was disgusting how she hovered so close to the green-skin leader, how she touched his arm and leaned into him in some gross mockery of love, leaned into his black plate- Orgrim's plate. Disgusting how he wrapped an arm around her and- right in front of Daelin- kissed her on the mouth, porcine beast that he was. Disgusting, the look of contentment on her face.

Daelin glowered blackly at them, his unnatural eyes blazing.

The two leaders pulled apart, and smiled momentarily at one another. "Ready to go, lambchomp?" the orc asked, giving Kallah a little bounce. "Or do you want to grab some toys first?"

"Toys!" the girl exclaimed excitedly, and Thrall chuckled and set her down. She hopped off to her room, obvious to Daelin's bloodthirsty glare, and quickly gathered up some of her things.

"Lambchop. A piece of meat," Jaina reflected jovially on his choice of pet name. She'd heard it plenty of times before, but it only just struck her as funny.

"Oh, and what pet name would you give her, pink-skin?" he asked teasingly. "Scallop? Shrimp? Oyster?"

Jaina laughed and gave him a shove. "Of course not!" she exclaimed. "Why would I name her after food? Typical orc, always thinking about your stomach!"

"Hey, I'm not the one with an outrageously large posterior. Somebody likes food a little more than she lets on."

"Why you-!"

"I'm ready!" Kallah cried gleefully, hopping out of her room with a bundle of toys in arm. "Um, and Mommy, Math went poopy in the bathroom again!"

"What? He's supposed to use his..." she broke off quickly, alarmed at how close she'd come to revealing that her Frostwolf had a litter box. "Well, I'll just clean that up, then," she continued quickly, and she hurried off to do so.

Suspicious of whatever Jaina had trailed off about, Thrall decided to follow.

Kallah smiled and then blinked and touched the hat she was wearing. "Oh!" She set her bundle down and then quickly turned and hopped back to Daelin, who was still glaring daggers at the room around him. Apparently she didn't notice the vile mood he was in, because she approached him without caution and offered his hat back to him.

His eyes shifted and settled on her for a moment, cold and sharp. He lifted a hand and jerked the hat from her fingers, and placed it on his head. Then without a word, he stood and stalked off, marching out into the tower hallways. Kallah blinked and watched him go, suddenly aware that he was upset. A part of her wished she could go find out. She frowned slightly and looked at the ground.

A thought occurred to her. Kallah perked up. Nobundo! The old shaman had arrived just a few days ago, but what if he wasn't there when Kallah came back? Worry scrunched up her face, and she realized she'd have to go say goodbye to him. The little girl backtracked to her door and peered inside. Her parents seemed to be occupied with Math's litter box. Surely they wouldn't miss her if she were gone for just a few minutes?

Determined to say goodbye to nice old Nobundo, just in case he had to leave and she never got to see him again, Kallah grabbed her cloak and rushed out the door to Jaina's rooms. Nobundo's room wasn't that far away- surely she could get there before her parents realized she was missing.

Nobundo knew that Kallah was coming, even before he heard the knock on his door. He smiled to himself, glad for the company. He stood up ponderously, stretching out his old joints. Kallah knocked again and he blinked. Was something urgent? In light of this, he shuffled quickly towards the door, and opened it.

"Nobundo!"

He was tackled by forty pounds of excited child. He grunted and tilted his head to the side, reaching down to pat Kallah's shoulder. "There there, child. What is it?"

Kallah jumped back from him. "Nobundo, I'm going to be leaving for a week, so I just wanted you to know in case you had to leave before then! And so you weren't wondering where I was! You aren't leaving, are you?"

Nobundo blinked and shook his head, fleshy tendrils shifting back and forward. "Likely not, child. I will be here for a few months, at minimum. But this is new. Where are you going?"

"I'm going to... to..." Daelin's words struck her at that moment, and she wasn't certain what to say. Did draenie dislike orcs? Daelin hadn't said anything about it, but she hypothesized that it was possible. What if Nobundo knew she belonged to a human and an orc? Would he get suspicious? Would he... would he hate her...?

The shaman was watching her curiously, aged blue eyes curious and soft. Kallah smiled at him from beneath her magically darkened hood. No. Nobundo would never hate her. He was nice, safe. "I'm going to live with my daddy for a week!" she said proudly. "I want you to meet him! Come, come, I'll show you!" She gleefully grabbed a hold of his hand and set off for Jaina's quarters.

Nobundo blinked at this sudden revelation, and to be honest was quite curious as to the identity of Kallah's father. At the same time, however, he felt this was a personal, family matter, and doubted that he should intrude.

"He knows about shammanism and stuff, like you! I want you to meet him, I think you'll like him!" If Nobundo had any doubts about meeting Kallah's father, they were dispelled with that statement. Someone certainly _had_ been teaching Kallah shammanism- it was evident from how well she understood his lessons. Despite the personal nature of the issue, he was intrigued as to the identity of his pupil's other mentors.

After a brief internal debate, Nobundo let himself be tugged along, chuckling and smiling when she coaxed him to "hurry, hurry!"

Thrall was still grinning when he came back to Jaina's lobby. A litterbox. There was something hilarious in that. Still, it was the most practical solution, with the wolf living hundreds of feet in the air. He blinked when he saw no sign of Kallah, and then stooped over to pick up her things.

A shimmer of purple crystal glinted through her bundle. He blinked and paused, staring at the crystal a moment, before reaching inside the satchel and pulling it out. It was a fat, crystalline structure, shaped something like a rook. It had prongs at one end, and disembodied crystals that somehow stuck close to the main body. Although it was covered in runes thatThrall did not recognize, he could _immediately_ sense the presence of spiritual energy.

This was a totem. His eyes widened in surprise and he stared at it for a long moment, marveling at the alien design. So strange and elegant compared to- "Daddy! Daddy!" His head jerked up at the sound of Kallah's voice. She was coming down the hall of the tower, which meant she had likely run off after Daelin or some such thing. Slightly concerned for her welfare, and intrigued by what he had just found, he headed quickly for Jaina's doorway and rounded it without a second thought.

"Kallah, what-"

The spirits did not warn Nobundo that something was wrong, so he was completely shocked by the sudden appearance of an orc. He was even more surprised to see this orc was wearing armor! Wearing... wearing...

The Broken Draenie's eyes went wide. He had never seen Thrall, had never met the orc leader or seen him depicted in any form. Given that, one would think he'd have no means by which to recognize the orcish warchief. But there were only so many people who could walk around wearing Orgrim Doomhammers' black plate. And Nobundo saw that dreaded armor every time he closed his eyes.

Thrall froze. Standing no more than three feet in front of him was... a... _something_. Although it looked strangely familiar, it was still bizarrely alien, gnarled and hunched, with a face that looked like it was made of melted wax. The second their gazes met, the _something _froze as well, eyes widening in surprise and alarm. Kallah was holding one of its gnarled hands in her own, and she laughed, lifting her other hand to touch Thrall's. "Daddy!" she exclaimed. "This is my friend, Nobundo! He's a shaman, like you!"

Nobundo's eyes flicked down to Kallah, and then back to the orc's in an instant.

_Daddy?_

Oh shit. He stepped backwards involuntarily, clutching his staff till his knuckles were white and bringing a hand to his chest. Kallah felt him pulling away and looked back at him, surprised by his reaction. "Nobundo?" She glanced between the two shaman, and was immediately alarmed by their stunned faces. She winced, and realized she should have paid more attention to what her grandfather had said. But as she looked between them, she realized that there was a marked difference in expression. Thrall looked surprised and curious.

Nobundo looked frightened. "Nobundo?" she asked again, taking a step back towards the aged draenie. His eyes darted down to her, and he took another step backwards. Kallah's brow furrowed in concern and bewilderment. Nobundo couldn't be afraid of her... could he? "Are... are you okay?" she asked, stepping towards him again and touching his arm. He winced but did not move, letting her near to him as he looked back to the intimidating orc.

Kallah was just a child after all. She wasn't a part of his nightmares, she was innocent, carefree... She was just a child, even if she was also... also... Even if this orc was her parent.

Thrall overcame his initial surprise first and coughed slightly. He supposed he shouldn't have rushed out of Jaina's room so quickly. "My apologies for staring, you just... surprised me." Nobundo didn't move. Actually, the other shaman looked- in Thrall's opinion- like a deer that he just seen an approaching mountain lion.

Was he a member of the Alliance, then? But he looked nothing like a human, nightelf, dwarf, gnome, or... or...

Oh shit. Draenie?

* * *

OMIGODZ, THE MUTTON CHOPS! THE EYEBROWS! THE CHESTPLATE THAT LOOKS LIKE A BRA! HE LOOKS LIKE A BADLY GROOMED HIPPIE CLOWN! AAAHHH!

Let's see, I want to poll all you guys. Who agrees with me that Varimathras's new appearance is the single gosh-darn UGLIEST, most REPULSIVE, most STUPIDEST (yes, I know that is grammatically incorect) thing they have ever seen? Who else thought his in-game betrayal of the undercity was a little too cliche, and silly? Who else saw it comming from a mile away, and wondered how Sylvanas was caught so off guard? Who else wonders where Varimathras got those muttonchops if Nathreziem lack hair? Hmmm...

BADLY GROOMED HIPPIE CLOWN!!!

Needless to say, Varimathras's sudden conversion to a hippie clown shall be left out of this story. You will, however, be amazed by my ability to nail the Undercity event within 9/10ths of the lore.

_**YARG!!! REVIEW IF YOU LOVE ME!**_


	18. Hope and Damnation

Woohoo! Look at how fast I updated! Well, I got reviewed this time, and I respond favorably to reviews ;) You should also thank Lurking Grue, as her uberness has inspired me.

I'll be posting new Art on DeviantArt in just a sec. Check the link through my profile.

Love ya guys!

* * *

_**Hope and Damnation**_

* * *

Nagrand

Nagrand - orcish for "Land of Winds" - was formerly the homeland of the Frostwolf clan, and the meeting grounds of the orcish people, where the Kosh'harg celebrations were held twice every year. The clans would assemble at the base of their sacred mountain, Oshu'gun, and give thanks to the spirits.

The spirits had never explained what they indeed Ember to do or learn in Nagrand, but they had been very insistent upon her traveling to that local. Now that they had finally reached Nagrand, Zul'vii was dreaming up ideas for why they had came.

Nagrand was a fairly safe place- at least compared to the rest of Outland. It was green and fertile- much like Azeroth, in fact. There was a sense of reverence and peace in the air, and the battered remnants of old orc and draenei tribes strove to eck out a living for themselves.

Zul'vii took in a deep breath, enjoying the clean air.

"The spirits say that they are going to find me a teacher here," Ember said slowly. "A few teachers. They say the people are most in tune with the earth, and they'll be able to teach me to hold on to my name, even in places like Shadowmoon. They'll make me stronger so I can help my uncle."

Zul'vii blinked, and looked curiously at the little girl.

"They also want me to go there, but later," the possessed child continued, lifting a finger to point at a glistening white mountain in the distance. Oshu'gun. The largest diamond in the known universe. Zul'vii felt it looked like a large puff of whipped cream, but she wasn't about to tell anyone that. The spirits might have been listening, after all.

The half-troll grunted, and patted Ember's head. "You trust them?" she inquired. "This is their homeland. They could be doing this for themselves."

Ember pondered. The fact that Ember could ponder _anything_ was a new development. She owed the spirits for that- for keeping her mind free of Archimonde's influence, for holding the waves of Nature back. "I think they have their own desires... But I think I can trust them to help me. I feel something strange here. Bad and yet good... Maybe it will help me."

Zul'vii nodded and stretched. "Alright then, kid. You lead the way. I'm just your guardian angel," she added with a wink.

The little girl blinked and smiled up at her guardian. "You're a good angel, Zul'vii."

"'Ey mon, between you and Illidan, I've got lots of experience. Ah, I'm going to stand out among these people like a sore thumb. Well, at least the Blood Elves are now on the Horde side, eh? You think I could pass for a night elf?"

"No. You're not purple enough, and you have tusks," Ember observed

"Right. Maybe a bit of voodoo magic, then. I've got a feeling some of your teachers aren't going to be horde, and it's hard enough to sneak you into orc outposts."

"Voo-doo?"

"Ya! Ancient troll magic, girl. I've been usin some to help us get through our long quest. Find it funny we took so long to get to Outland, only for your father to wind up right on our tail, though."

"We don't have tails..." Ember noted in bewilderment. "Except for Nana. But we didn't have her then."

Zul'vii laughed and ruffled Ember's wild hair. "It be an expression, girl!"

"Oh. Zul'vii? Why does your accent turn on and off?"

"Because I'm lazy, mon. One day I decide to be island troll, the next I'm forest troll, the next I'm elf. Too lazy to correct myself. But... If you want, milady, I can be prim and proper at all times, with fully coherent grammar and an archaic, run-on sentence style. I can also refrain from dropping my 'g's, and would have little problem fully conjugating the verb 'be'."

Ember gave her a funny look. "I have no idea what you just said."

Zul'vii laughed.

* * *

Naxxramas

Ketala despaired. She sank into herself again, cutting out all inside influence, broken and ashamed of her brokenness. Even Cheshire could not rouse her- could not get her to eat, could not get her to speak to him or respond to his touch. The next time Mograine tried to visit, he glared reproachfully at the horseman.

"You broke her," the mage scolded.

"I did," Mograine agreed, and his tone implied that he had intended to do so.

Cheshire scowled even more. "The Master's torturers were doing that fast enough. "

"No. They weren't," he replied flatly, his eyes focusing on the regressed ex-paladin. The mage seemed irritated by this answer, and he evidenced this feeling by pouting.

"I have to say I'm not impressed by your methodology. Now I have no one to talk to again."

"Silence, fool," the horseman ordered dismissively, reaching over to touch the girl's chin.

Cheshire growled and shoved the ex-highlord away. "Don't you dare touch her, deathknight. She doesn't deserve to be touched by something as rotten as you."

Mograine eyed Cheshire, one madman sizing up another. He decided not to run the unsettling mage through. If he did care about Ketala, even just for company's sake, then he was more useful than he seemed at first glance. "She is already as damned as any of us. Besides, don't you want me to fix her?"

Cheshire blinked and eyed the horseman uncertainly. After a long moment, he nodded. "Fine. I guess you can't make her any worse than she already is."

Mograine smiled to himself and knelt down before Ketala. He pushed aside her hair, and leaned in close to her cheek. "Ketala," he murmured softly. She didn't stir. "Thaddius needs you." This got a rise out of her- finally- after weeks of her sitting dormant in her cell. She turned her eyes to him, her brows furrowing in hatred and pain.

"Thaddius is dead," she snapped hollowly.

Mograine smiled. "And what do we do with dead people around here, Ketala?"

For a long moment, she just glared at him. Then her glare faded.

"You brought him back as an undead?"

Mograine smiled. "I doubt he'll recognize you... But some of him can be recovered. Don't you think?"

"...What's the catch?"

The death knight smiled and gently patted her head. "You don't get to see him till you're fully in the Lich King's service. But I thought it would make you happy to know that he isn't gone forever. Try to stay conscious, dear Ketala; you're upsetting your only friend. And he's wasting a lot of very good pie."

Mograine stood then, turned around, and walked quietly out of the cell. Ketala watched him silently, and then turned her gaze to Cheshire.

He was watching her with concern- at least she felt it was concern. With his leery, carnivorous mouth, it was often hard to tell.

She turned her head to the side, and said nothing.

_Vaiden..._

_Vaiden-vaiden-vaiden-vaiden-_

Vaiden was sleeping. Over Quel'Thalas, mounted on a Forsaken Bat and heading straight for Silvermoon, he twitched in Zeliek's arms. The paladin frowned and held the child a little closer. Since their brief stop at Light's Hope Chapel, the little boy hadn't looked particularly well. He hoped it didn't have to do with Ketala.

* * *

The Black Temple

Illidan had collapsed upon his bed, and it sagged beneath his massive weight. His wings were sprawled off the sides, and his regenerated horns brushed against the backboard. He was asleep, and his eyes had ceased their dreadful glowing. Furthermore, he was dreaming, and twitched frightfully at whatever visions he was seeing.

_Monster... Betrayer... Demon... Murderer..._

"_Uncle!"_

Green flame poured out in a flash from where his eyes should have been, and he took a sharp breath. Ember's voice echoed to him from the depths of his conscious and the pit of his dreams, rebounding around him like the voice of a ghost. He shuddered violently, and his violet lips twisted in shame.

Something interrupted his angst. Pinned beneath his hips and abdomen, a blood elf female moaned. He had used her viciously the night before, trying to sate his anguish by forcing it on to her, by tearing her apart. She lay there, spent, broken, crushed under his weight.

He grimaced at her noises, having sincerely hoped that she had suffocated. With a sigh he rolled casually off of her and then reached down, grabbed her throat, and effortlessly snapped her neck. There was blood on her face, and it came off on him. He lifted his hand and regarded the bright red droplets for a moment, before unceremoniously kicking her ruined corpse off of his bed.

_I am a monster,_ he reflected. _What more did I expect? _

"**Uncle!" **

He sat bolt upright, his lips parted in surprise and his eyes flaming brightly. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, and then took in a slow breath. "Ember?"he asked softly, looking around his bed chamber. The voice had been physical- not mental.

"Uncle!" was the only response he received, in the same tone of voice as the 'uncle' before it. His ears twitched and he looked up towards the sound. A translucent, green bird was sitting in his window. It looked very much like a parrot, and was sitting upon a scroll of parchment. "Uncle!" it exclaimed again, proclaimed the intended recipient of the letter

Illidan stared at it a brief moment and then scrambled out of the bed. He fell off the side in his haste, banging his chin against the ground, and then scrambled up to the green bird. The strange animal just hopped off of the scroll and waited there patiently. Illidan seized the soggy parchment and carefully began to unravel it, his fingers shaking slightly in anticipation.

The handwriting was crude and childish, and much of the ink had been smudged. Still, there it was, in black and white- the proof that he was not yet damned.

"Dear Uncle Illidan,

I miss you a lot and wish I was with you! I'm safe. I have a friend named Zulvii. She was taking me to visit you but we are taking a side trip. She says she is your friend too. I met some spirits who are helping me fight against my inside demon. They help but I would rather be with you. They promised I would get to visit you by the end of the year and so did Zulvii. I love you and I miss you a lot.

Love, Ember.

By the way Zulvii helped me spell stuff."

Illidan's hands shook, his stomach and heart contracting and his lungs shriveling up within his chest. She was alive. Ember was alive. He hadn't killed her. She was alive. He'd attacked her, and she didn't even blame him. Tears formed in his left tear duct- his working tear duct- and trailed down his face.

Illidan slipped to his knees, drawing the tattered letter lovingly to his chest and wrapping his wings about himself, shutting out the world. Ember. The child that should have been his. His niece. And Zul'vii…

Zul'vii… Illidan had told the half-troll he_ loved_ her.

But he loved Tyrande.

It didn't matter; they were alive, they were coming to him, and that was all that counted.

"Ember," he murmured softly, a great weight lifted from his shoulders.

"Ember!" yelled the translucent green parrot, and Illidan nearly jumped out of his skin. He jerked his head up and stared at the creature, which fidgeted and then yelled again: "Ember!"

Illidan stared at it for a moment, and then he climbed to his feet and quickly staggered over to one of his bedside tables. He rummaged through its drawers, tossing aside magic items and scrolls before at last coming across a blank piece of parchment. When he couldn't find a pen or inkwell, he conjured both of them, and quickly wrote out a return letter.

"My Dearest Niece,

I am glad to hear you are well, and I apologize for what happened last time you saw me. I was not myself. Zul'vii is a close friend of mine, and I know she'll keep you safe. These spirit friends you've met seem very wise, and it's good that someone's helping you against Archimonde. While you're on your detour, I'll try and fix things up so you'll be safe here. Even so, please send me a letter when you reach Shadowmoon, as I'd like to bring you here myself. I love you, little Ember. Please stay safe, and know that you can write to me whenever you wish.

Love, Your Uncle

PS: And no, 'uncle' is not a silly word."

Illidan shivered and sat down on his bed. He eyed the parrot, and then carefully rolled up his letter and closed it with a bit of wax from a bedside candle. He wanted badly to follow the magical bird, but if Ember was hidden from his senses, then someone was trying to protect her…

And the more he thought about it, the more he realized they were right to shield her from him. That was the thing, about Ember, he supposed. It was easier for him to be unselfish when she was involved. It was easier for him to admit when he was flawed. He pitied her, loved her, and knew he had to do the right thing for her.

The right thing was to allow her to go on her little detour to Nagrand. The right thing was to keep her away- at least until he could straighten his mind out again. At the very least, he needed to stop hearing voices.

Illidan took in a deep breath, and stood up. He stepped up to the green parrot, and offered it the scroll. It daintily plucked the letter from his hand. Then it took off into the steadily brightening sky, and vanished into the emerald dream. He neither cast a spell nor took wing after it. Ember was safe with Zul'vii. Now he needed to make it so she'd be safe with him.

Illidan grimaced and turned, hurrying out of his room.

Safe with him.

He remembered the taste of Archimonde's demonic energy, wafting from Ember's being. His throat grew dry, and his green eyes blazed a little brighter. What would it be like to feast off a demon lord? Perhaps he could use Ember, siphon her energy so that he could stand against Kil'jaeden! He could rid the world of the deceiver, once and for all, could- could...

_Drain __Ember__?!_

Illidan froze, his eyes widening.

By Elune, he was stalk raving mad. Ten seconds after he found out Ember was alive, he was planning to eat her.

He covered his mouth and slumped against the doorway of his room, a horrible, cold sensation welling up through his stomach. What the nether was wrong with him? Was he that insane? That lost?He'd just considered devouring Ember! Not only considered it- but imagined how sweet it would taste, planned how he'd use it again hist enemies-

But then she was such a powerful wellspring of power... And she was only one, insignificant girl- the prized child of his disgusting brother, no less. One child for the power to defeat the burning legion, to take all of Outland, to destroy Kil'jaden.

_NO! That is my niece, my child, _MY_ Ember, and her safety is not to be compromised!_

_Did I not steal the skull of Guldan to save my people? Did I not use the dreaded eye of Sargaras to try and destroy Arthas, once and for all? Both time I was doing a noble task, and both times I was halted by the morality of others. Now I have all of Archimonde's power at my disposal. He is helpless, contained within he body. It would take nothing more then a thought to destroy him, to take all his power, to use it-_

None of his minions could help him. Kael was growing more and more... deceptive. Vashj was cunning, looking for any opportunity to destroy. The Satyrs would claim his madness was the correct path to follow. He was going to lose it. There in that dismal palace, every good thing he'd ever done was withering away.

He would hurt Ember. He would kill _Ember_!

He slipped to the ground, staring vacantly at his worn hooves, studying his clawed fingers.

He'd hurt Ember? That was impossible. He would never do such a thing.

Well, unless...

_Never_.

He scowled, disgusted by his sudden inability to keep his convictions straight. Why was this so difficult? How could he not remember his niece and what she meant to him? How could he even think of harming her?

_Because power is more important to you than anything else. You are sick with it. _

He shuddered, baring his teeth. Very well, if that was the case, _he_ was a sorcerer. A mage. He knew how to meditate, to enforce mental discipline upon himself. He grimaced and folded his recurved legs, closing his green eyes and lowering his head.

He would not hurt her. _Could_ not.

But I'm hungry, so hungry... Should drain a demon first, gather strength for...

No. This was for Ember. Ember.

Just focus on Ember.

He breathed in slowly, pushing out all other thoughts- forcing them out if they refused to leave willingly. He would never hurt her.

Ember.

* * *

Theramore

Kallah looked baffled as her father's expression changed to match Nobundo's, almost... almost _spooked_. She frowned and looked between the both of them, not understanding.

Thrall took an uncertain step backwards, his brow furrowing slightly. Then he looked down at the totem still clasped in his hand. It was crystalline... And Jaina had said the Exodar had been a ship forged of _crystal_. He hesitated a moment and then lifted the object up, showing it to the draenei.

"Did you give her this?"

Nobundo looked at the object and nodded. Thrall offered a tentative smile, trying not to show much tusk.

"... Thank you. I'd been meaning to make one myself, but hadn't the time... It's an earth totem, is it not?"

The aged draenei tilted his head to the side, almost as if examining the warchief from a new angle. After a long moment, he finally regained control of his throat. "It is," he said slowly, and his voice sounded as tortured as his body looked.

"It's... It's very different from what my people make, but its still quite recognizable. It is only a focus for earth, after all.."

Nobundo could only nod mutely. Kallah blinked and smiled at the totem. "Nobundo was giving me lessons!" she told her father. "He taught me how to use the totem and everything!"

Thrall recorded this fact for his later attention but for now he needed to do something to ease the tension in that hallway. "She... is a talented student, is she not?"

Nobundo shifted. "Exceptionally so," he answered after a moment. He paused, and then went on to address another subject. "Lady Proudmoore had mentioned her affiliation with the orc warchief. She even said he had taught her to dabble in shammanism."

Thrall nodded. "Culture exchange." Nobundo glanced down at Kallah, and then back to Thrall. It almost seemed as if he was saying 'Huh. Culture exchange. That all?' The orc warchief grimaced. "A result of our friendship," he said slowly, and it was not clear whether he referenced the culture exchange, or Kallah herself.

The explanation seemed to placate Nobundo, however, and he eyed the orc curiously. Thrall was not at all what he had expected. The orc leader was soft-spoken, and looked embarrassed- perhaps even a little ashamed.

"You are... a draenei?" the orc asked slowly, hoping not to offend. He had never seen a draenei up close before, and could only rely on verbal descriptions. Draenei rarely came to the barrens, and had not been involved in Silithus.

"A Broken draenei," Nobundo corrected. "Corrupted by the demonic taint of the orcs when they ravaged my homeland."

"...I... I'm sorry. I cannot express the depths of my grief for what my people once were. There is no excuse for our sins. We drank the blood of demons willingly, corrupting our spirits for the strength to destroy. There is no honor in that- just filthy shame. But... now... all we can do is put that twisted history behind us, and push onward... And try to atone for what we have done."

Nobundo stared at the orc warchieftain, amazed by the eloquent and humble words that issued forth from his mouth. This was no Ner'zhul, no Guldan, no Blackhand or Doomhammer. The orc was taller than Nobundo, far more massive, and garbed in Orgrim's Black plate...

But the words he used were words of peace.

Nobundo closed his eyes momentarily, feeling the wind as it trickled in through the tower's stones and timbers, through open windows and gaping doors. The spirits were strong around him, wrapping around the young orc and murmuring their blessings. Here is honor, the told him. Here is justice. When he opened his eyes again, Nobundo smiled.

"You speak like Durotan," he said softly. Thrall stiffened.

"You know, it serves me right," Thrall blinked and turned around to see Jaina standing outside her corners, shaking her head. "There was no way I could keep two powerful shaman in one building without one sensing the other anyway. This wasn't quite how I hoped you'd two meet, however." She looked apologetically at the draenei shaman.

Nobundo looked to the woman, and Thrall tried to gage the Broken's response. Would the draenei be disgusted? Would he feel betrayed? Would-

Nobundo smiled weakly in amusement. "Miss Proudmoore. You are late."

Jaina blinked and gave the draenei a big grin, stress and worry sloughing immediately off her shoulders. "Nobundo, you are so my new best friend."

"What?" Thrall exclaimed, as if hurt.

"Oh, right! Nobundo, you are so my new best friend- next to this oaf here, that is." And she gave the orc a friendly shove. So innocent was their banter that Nobundo couldn't help but smile a little more. Surely a relationship so innocent could not be a sign of traitorous intent? He would have to ask Velen. But the spirits told him that this was sanctioned, and little Kallah, so obviously blessed by the elements, could not be a fluke. Even so... the sight of that armor...

This was not how he expected to meet the warchief of the orcish Horde.

There was something liberating about that, as if a great weight on his soul had been lifted. Perhaps, if this was what Thrall was truly like, there was hope for the green-skinned race after all. He was still shaken... still suspicious... But perhaps there was hope. Perhaps.

Kallah giggled at her parents antics, and smiled happily up at Nobundo. Although he could not see her face, he imagined cyan eyes and green skin. One thing was certain: He would not tell anyone about Kallah. This child was innocent of her ancestors' sins.

"We should get inside my quarters," Jaina said after a moment. "We could be overheard out here, and Thrall's appearance still rouses suspicion. I will explain everything Nobundo... and I am sorry I did not warn you that he would be here."

* * *

Silvermoon

"Stay close Vaiden," Zeliek said sternly to the little boy as he began sifting through the various items available at the Silvermoon bazaar. They had many long days ahead of them, and the undead did not want to face them unprepared. Tirion Fordring had not been stationed at Light's Hope Chapel, but was believed to be wandering around Quel'Thalas. If Zeliek was exceptionally fortunate, he might be able to find the old paladin. If not, Tirion would have already headed back for Light's Hope, and Zeliek would have to pursue.

Either way, the journey would be long and tedious. Vaiden would require food, water, and clothing, among many things. Zeliek himself was pondering over the idea of buying a shield.

Vaiden tried to do as the paladin had bade him, and remain close. When he found something interesting, like a particularly yummy smelling food, he'd bring it up to Zeliek to see if his guardian would buy it. But as curiosity got the better of the little boy, he began wandering father and father away. Until recently, he had never left Kel'Thuzad's throne room, and so was he eager to investigate everything he came across.

The world was so much bigger than he had thought!

Vaiden was looking inquisitively through a crate full of strange purple fruits when he first saw _it_. It glided past him silently, a brown cloak fluttering in tandem with its movements. Its steps were quick but soundless, in the way only a highly trained elf's could be. As it slipped by him, he could feel the change in the air, a slight shift in pressure and a lingering chill on the breeze.

Vaiden lifted his head and quickly turned towards it, watching it as it flowed effortlessly through the crowd. It came to rest at a blacksmith shop, and set something down upon the smithy's counter. The little boy blinked and looked down again. He eyed his doll tentatively a moment before his childish curiosity overwhelmed him. Without pausing to consider his actions- for really, what child ever considers their actions?- he turned and headed up to the smithy.

He slowly came up behind the _thing_. The noises of the bazaar were overpowering, blocking out all else, so the boy drew closer and closer, wanting to find out the purpose of this curious store.

A voice caught his ear, hoarse and effectual, seeping out over the din. A human voice, rough around the edges.

Vaiden's eyes widened. He _knew_ that voice. Knew it as well as he had ever known anything, as well as the sound and smell of his missing mother. He knew it keenly, intrinsically, with every bone in his body. The boy bolted forward, directly up to the cloaked _thing_, letting the sound of the voice- _its_ voice- roll over him. Excitement mounting, Vaiden flitted to its side and reached up, past the cloak. His fingers came to rest on the cold metal blade of a jagged axe.

Nathanos's hand moved the second he detected thieving little hands near his axe. His fingers latched around a tiny wrist, and he looked down with malevolent irritation at the small child he had caught. The little one blinked and turned surprised eyes up to the ranger's face. Nathanos was halfway through wondering if anyone would mind should he decide to hack the kid's hands off. All thought ceased when he saw those eyes. His whole body stiffed and he did an immediate double-take.

Whirling, multi-chromatic eyes peered up at him. He lifted a brow and turned fully towards the child, taking stock of its gray flesh and lukewarm temperature. Was this… thing created from the same stock as Ketala? And if so, what was it doing in Silvermoon?

"Vaiden!" a voice called through the crowd. The boy blinked and looked towards the sound. Seconds later, a white clad paladin forced his way through the people nearby. Nathanos released the child's arm and stepped back, watching as the paladin approached the blacksmith booth.

Hmm. Paladins. Whirling eyes. Undead children. This was all very peculiar, and scented vaguely of deja vu.

"Vaiden!" Zeliek gasped, coming up and kneeling before the little boy. "I told you not to wander off! What did you think you were doing?" He examined the child thoroughly making sure the boy was still in one piece. Then he pulled back. Vaiden's expression was very peculiar, but Zeliek couldn't even begin to fathom what it meant. After a moment, he looked up to the cloaked ranger and sighed lightly. "I'm sorry; he is just a child and does not know any better. Come now, Vaiden, we have shopping to do." With that, he reached down and attempted to take the little boy's hand. Much to his surprise, Vaiden evaded his grasp.

Nathanos eyed the two and then concentrated on the paladin, taking note of his white skin and low body temperature. The ranger grimaced at the notion that the world had just manifested another undead paladin. For a moment, he contemplated just turning and walking away… But it occurred to him that this paladin might have valuable information concerning Ketala.

Although it was against his better judgment, Nathanos decided to speak.

"You know Ketala Truae," he observed pointedly.

Zeliek blinked at the words and lifted his eyes to the cloaked being. The voice had been humanoid but dry. The more Zeliek stared at the man, the more he recognized the chill that emanated from the his person. In this manner, he came to realize that the cloaked being was a Forsaken. He sent a silent prayer to the Light for protecting Vaiden from such a creature.

"How do you know that?" Zeliek inquired slowly.

The Forsaken shrugged. "There are only so many undead paladins in the world, and all are somehow associated with her."

Zeliek frowned at the words, looked to Vaiden, and then looked in sudden understanding back at the Forsaken. Over the undead's back was strapped a beautiful bow of elfin make, with elegant runes and patterns etched on its surface. Tied to his waist were two jagged axes, distinctive and unforgettable in shape and make. Zeliek slowly stood from his kneeling position, brows furrowed.

"Nathanos Blightcaller?" he asked.

The Ranger Lord chuckled and applauded. "There we go. I was waiting to see if I'd be recognized. Now, who are you, how do you know Ketala, what do you have to tell me, and- out of simple curiosity- what the Nether is that?" he inquired, gesturing to Vaiden.

Zeliek was still a bit stunned at finding the undead ranger so suddenly and in so strange a place. "I… I am Sir Zeliek," he said slowly. "I was forced to serve as a deathknight under the Lich King… Although he owned my body, my spirit did not succumb-"

"Yes, yes, definitely sounds like a friend of Ketala. So she took pity on you and fought the vile forces of the flying ziggurat, and helped you flee."

Zeliek blinked, fumbling for words. "Err, yes… She asked me to bring Vaiden," he gestured to the boy in question as he spoke, "safely from Naxxramas… And she asked me to find out what happened to you."

"To me?" Nathanos asked in feigned surprise. "Why, nothing's happened to me. What would make her think that something had?"

The undead paladin frowned. "She… believed that you'd try and free her…"

"Yes, well, Ketala believes many strange things, now doesn't she?" the ranger asked, a grin forming over his partially hidden face. Zeliek's eyes narrowed. Nathanos smiled even more, enjoying the paladin's arrogant disdain. If his senses spoke the truth, than this white-clad knight cared very much for Ketala and did not enjoy hearing her mocked. The ranger looked casually to the boy at 'Sir Zeliek's' side.

"And what is he?" the Ranger Lord asked languidly.

This time, it was Zeliek's turn to upset his adversary. "Your son," he said flatly, hoping to shock the ranger. He obviously did not know Nathanos very well. Comments designed to shock Nathanos Blightcaller bounced harmlessly off the ranger's armor leaving nary a scratch.

Or, at least… they usually did.

All mirth left the ranger's face. He lifted his head and stared quietly at Zeliek. What the paladin could see of his expression was blank- but then Zeliek could not see Nathanos's eyes. He had not the senses to detect the slight balance adjustment in the Forsaken's stance that signified a slight jab of vertigo, nor could he perceive how his body tensed dramatically, every hair standing on end. Had Ras or Ketala been there, they would have easily been able to translate the ranger's pose into a palpable question, something along the lines of:

'What?'

But neither Ras nor Ketala was present. The ranger quickly gathered his thoughts, and his response was snide and rational. "Really? Tell me, Zulock was it? Has it escaped your notice that I am, in fact, dead?"

"No-"

"Has it escaped your notice that Ketala is dead?" Nathanos interrupted calmly.

"… No."

"Then how, Sir. Zulock, do you presume two dead people could possibly create a child?"

"I don't know-"

"Then how do you suppose this child is mine?"

Vaiden frowned, his brows drawing together in confusion at his father's- and it was his father's- sharp tone. When Ketala had told him stories, Vaiden had heard and seen the things she described as clearly as if he'd been there himself. He knew Nathanos's voice- knew it as well as he knew Ketala's. He knew his father's face, his weapon, his voice, even his smell. And now at last, Vaiden had found him, had met his parent for the first time in his entire life.

And… And Nathanos didn't want him?

Oblivious to Vaiden's thoughts, Zeliek took in an unnecessary breath, drawing on Ketala's stories to determine how to deal with the ranger. "Did you sleep with her?" he finally asked.

"Surely as one of the undead, you must know we do not _really_ sleep," Nathanos continued conversationally, a nasty smile on his face.

"We can enough that we might dream, but you know well that "sleep" is not what I referenced."

"Oh? Do tell," the ranger coaxed sardonically.

Ordinarily, the conversation would have made Zeliek blush, but he felt he needed to be blunt. "Did you have sex with her?" he asked flatly.

Nathanos didn't blink, just smirking. "I hardly see how that's your business," he answered frankly. Such was his charisma and his ability to lead conversations in circles, that he could dilute the truth to the point where not even he could recognize it. This particular habit of the ranger's was in fact Jaina Proudmoore's reason for approaching him so indirectly about teleportation to the Undercity. Zeliek, unfortunately, was not possessing of the sorceress's wit.

"You asked me to prove-"

"Wrong!" Nathanos answered dismissively. "I did not ask you to do anything. He is not mine."

Vaiden winced and lowered his head. Sorely hurt, he wandered some distance from the two men and had plopped down to cradle his doll. He stroked over its soft black hair and against its silk clothes. The boy sighed inwardly and then drew the little doll up to his face and rubbed his cheek against it. His mother's scent wafted to him from the doll, and for a moment he was content.

"Hey!" came a voice near the boy.

Vaiden ignored it.

"Hey!" the voice sounded closer. Vaiden blinked and opened his eyes. Standing near him was a young blood elf with her hair dyed a bright red. She had an eager expression on her face, and was eyeing the doll he carried greedily. "I want that doll!" she said.

The grown-ups were still arguing. "You know Ketala exhibited many signs of life-" Zeliek protested.

"Oh please," the ranger scoffed. "Even if the child was Ketala's, that hardly makes him mine."

Some distance from them, Vaiden frowned at the elf girl and shook his head. She gasped and her eyes narrowed in anger. "I want that doll!" she yelled, and she pounced on him, grabbing at the doll and pinching him. Surprised, Vaiden did the only logical thing to do; he bit her. Immediately the girl's eyes went wide and she let go and jumped backwards, screaming. "He took my doll!" she wailed. "That monster, he took my doll and he _bit_ me! He took it and he BIT me!" she screamed.

Zeliek blinked at Nathanos's insinuations and his eyes narrowed. "How many people do you think she's lain with?"

"Considering how undead swarm around her? Frankly, _you_ do seem her type…" The poor paladin's eyes widened. "As long as we're talking about physical impossibilities, that is…"

Vaiden blinked at the girl, confused by the falsehoods she was shouting. Much to his surprise, a full grown blood elf adult approached the little girl. The elf was wearing brilliant gold and red armor, and he carried a great warhammer in his hand. He listened to her cries for a moment, examined her wound, and then turned vicious eyes on Vaiden.

"You disgusting rat! You come into our city, steal from one of our children, and _dare_ to harm her for it? You are lucky I do not tear you to pieces with Light!" the elf cried.

Poor Vaiden was so utterly confused. The adult elf stalked up to him, knelt down, and swiped Vaiden's little doll right out of his hands. He then kicked the undead child sharply in the ribs, and turned to give the doll to the little blood elf girl.

Vaiden did not cry out simply because he was mute. Pain shot up his side, and he stared in horror as his doll was taken away. The older elf was going back to the little girl, was kneeling down, was offering the doll to her.

Vaiden's doll. The only thing he had left to remember his mother…

Zeliek took in a breath to steady himself before answering the Ranger. "Both Ketala and I have black hair," he countered. "Vaiden has brown."

"Traits often show up down the genetic line. Ketala's father has brown hair."

Vaiden's eyes narrowed, slowly turning red and orange. He lifted a hand towards the paladin, towards his doll.

At last, Zeliek couldn't take it any more, and burst out with, "He looks JUST like you!"

The ensuing explosion put a quick end to their argument.

It sent the blood elf paladin flying thirty yards. He crashed bodily into an orphanage, which caught fire and began to burn. The doll lay on the ground where the elf had been standing, completely untouched. A foot away, a little blood elf girl stood very still, her eyes wide and mouth gaping.

Nathanos and Zelik twisted around stared at the scene, both caught off guard by the thunderous disturbance. Zeliek's jaw dropped, and his eyes opened wide. The Ranger Lord just docked his head to the side.

Oblivious to the havoc he had wrought, little Vaiden just tottered over to his doll, plopped down, scooped it up, and nuzzled against it happily. Chaose ensued around him as elves ran frantically back and forward, trying to rescue the orphanage children and put out the mounting flames.

After a moment of contemplation, Nathanos stood a little straighter and made a definitive gesture with his hand. "On second thought, I take everything back," he announced. "He is obviously my kid."

Zeliek whipped around to stare at him. "What?" he asked at the absurdity of it all. His eyes were wide, and he was still trying to comprehend what Vaiden had done.

Nathanos shrugged. "There are only two people in the world who could produce such a perfect blend of innocent naivety and paladin murder," he answered matter-of-factly, "and neither of them are you. The irony, violent explosion, and orphanage burning are just icing on the cake; He has to be mine." And with that, the ranger turned and headed straight for the little boy. Zeliek's jaw dropped once more, and he stared at the ranger in unrefined amazement.

Nathanos moved with a confident stride. Everything about him was brazen, cocksure, proud. As always, it seemed that he knew exactly what he was doing, that he had analyzed every outcome and was fully in control of what was going on. He walked silently up behind Vaiden, eyeing the child critically.

It would have taken another Ranger Lord to discern the expression of sheer terror that washed briefly over his face. As he came closer, his footsteps slowed, and it took effort to set one foot in front of the other. Still, he came closer, closer, until he was only a few feet away. He rubbed his fingers against his palms.

Facing away from him, Vaiden's only noticeable feature was his mane of mousy brown hair. It matched Nathanos's hair soAlso, I med like hours, unwilling to step any closer.

In life, Nathanos had been engaged to a high elf by the name of Vila'thail. Twice since his death, Nathanos had reflected on this engagement. Each time, his first reaction had been distress at the notion that he might- just might- have sired a child. This detail was in no way a coincidence. Nathanos could not have described why the notion of having a child so horrified him. Had Ras been there, the mage might have understood. As it was, Nathanos was left alone with the alien feelings. He did not like them.

For a long moment, he contemplated turning around and walking away. A few choice words, and Zeliek wouldn't want the boy anywhere near the Ranger Lord. Nathanos would never have to see the child again. He'd be free, and he wouldn't have upset Ketala by killing the kid, and Zeliek would happily take care of the boy…

Except, Nathanos noted with a slight quiver, he would know. He would remember that somewhere out there was a little boy who shared his blood. A child he had helped give life to. His kid. His son. He had a kid. He had been dead almost two decades, and yet he had somehow given life to a little boy. Had helped make a little boy.

"Vaiden…?" he asked hesitantly, uncertain if he had heard the child's name correctly.

The little boy blinked and looked at him in surprise. Nathanos stiffened. The first time he'd looked at Vaiden, he'd been preoccupied by the child's multi-colored eyes.

Now he saw his features mirrored back at him. He saw the high cheek bones and strong but pointed jaw, the expressive lips that could curl into the wryest of smiles. Although Vaiden's eyes were colored like Ketala's, their shape was hawk-like, akin to Nathanos's own. As he gazed down at the little boy, Ketala's traits came forward. They battled with his genes for control of the boy's nose. In the end, that feature was neither aquiline (like Nathanos's) nor sloped (like Ketala's), but rather somewhere in the middle. The general shape of the boy's face was heart-like, and so adhered more closely to the Truae side of things. Even so, Vaiden's features were so similar to Nathanos's that they brooked no argument. This was his child. There was no denying it.

Vaiden just watched the Forsaken man quietly. To him, Nathanos seemed worried- spooked, even. Unsure how to interpret this, the boy did nothing- just stared.

Nathanos closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked back down at his child. He took in a slow breath, and crouched down. "Come here," he said softly, beckoning with his hands.

Vaiden sat up straighter in surprise and docked his head to the side. Sensing his confusion, Nathanos held a hand out in the child's direction, palm up. Vaiden perked up even more so, and hugged his dolly tightly. He pushed himself to his feet, looked Nathanos up and down, and then took a hesitant step in the ranger's direction.

It took every ounce of Nathanos's will power not to bolt, and he took in a shaky breath. Even as he tried to steady himself, he also subconsciously pulled his hand back from the advancing child. Vaiden stopped around three feet away, and looked mystified up at his confused parent. The ranger grimaced as if in pain, but stubbornly reached out to touch the child's hair. Negative emotions flooded out of his body in an unsettling rush. He found himself staring wide-eyed at the boy, trying to comprehend that a little child shared his features right down to the texture of his hair. Encouraged by the touch, Vaiden tottered forward the last few steps and threw his little arms around the ranger's midsection.

A perplexed look passed over the Forsaken's face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then shut it again and cocked his head to the side. After a moment's contemplation, he reached down and plucked Vaiden off the ground, and he stood and held the child out at arm's length.

Vaiden looked curiously at him.

Nathanos looked wonderingly back.

Then the ranger sighed and shook his head. He drew the little boy back against him. Small arms encircled his neck, clinging to him. A tiny chin rested on his shoulder, and a cheek pressed against his. At that moment, Nathanos had but one certainty: There was no way on Azeroth that he was letting some pansy paladin raise his kid.

* * *

Naxxramas

"Ketala?"

She lifted her head and looked quietly up at the speaker, a mournful look on her face. Cheshire was perched on her cell's staircase and looking down at her over it's side. He smiled broadly, unnaturally. He was holding something in his right hand, and when he saw that he had her attention, he held it out towards her.

A flower. Clasped in the mage's gnarled fingers was a simple flower. It was vibrantly alive, with an emerald green stem and cream-colored petals. It looked like a Lilly of the Valley, at least from where Ketala was sitting.

"I found this for you," he said, still grinning. "It was growing on the necropolis! Very surprising."

She was silent, unresponsive. When she spoke, it had nothing to do with the flower. "Mograine's insane," she reflected, almost angrily.

"Of course he is," the mage exclaimed, a surprised look flashing over his face. "That goes without stating; we're all mad here. I'm mad, you're mad..."

She snorted. "How do you know that I'm 'mad'?" she asked.

"You must be so. Or you wouldn't have come here." He smiled again. "You came for Kel'Thuzad, did you not? That's a fairly mad thing to do."

Ketala grimaced, and stared uncertainly up at the bizarre mage, her eyes unblinking. At last her lips moved, speaking the question she truly wanted to ask.

"Thadius is now part of the Scourge?"

Cheshire regarded her and then nodded, holding the flower out further. "Take it," he pleaded. She hesitated, and a tear dripped down her face. Thaddius.

"_I can give him to you, Ketala," _an icy voice murmured in the back of her skull, soothing, soft. _"Sweet, sweet Ketala..."_

She closed her eyes, thinking of her newly adopted brother, of his soft voice and his brilliant green eyes. The Scourge would utterly ruin him, would destroy the last vestiges of his mind. If nothing else, she should be there for him. Even if she could not save his naïve innocence, perhaps she could save something. _Something_.

She took in a deep, unnecessary breath.

"_Promise not to steal from me. Promise to give me all the Scourge lives that I ask for. Promise never to throw them away, even when they are of no more use to you."_

"_Done."_

Ketala reached out a shaking hand, moving it towards Cheshire's lily. Her clawed fingers closed around the flower, cupping it tenderly, and he released it to her. All was silent and still for a moment. Then the flower began to wither in her grasp, as if the life were being sucked from it.. She examined it sadly for a moment, and then shook her head. _"So be it, then. Train me; I am yours."_

_

* * *

_

Silvermoon_  
_

Not all that far away, Vaiden suddenly seized up, his breath catching in his throat. A cold chill crept along Nathanos's back, and he looked bewildered at the young boy. Vaiden shivered, and sniffled, drawing his doll close against his chest. Nathanos blinked, and then jumped when Vaiden began to cry silently, glistening tears trailing down his face.

Nathanos frowned, and tried rocking the little boy. When Vaiden didn't calm down, the Rager Lord grimaced and shook his head. "... Ketala..." he murmured. "What have you done?"

* * *

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! There now, wasn't that evil of me? :) Don't forget DeviantArt!

_**YARG! REVIEW!**_


	19. The Beginning of the End

It has come to my attention that I am unable to continue writing this story. I have too many things going on in life right now, and far too many other projects I want to work on. Although I love the warcraft world, I haven't played World of Warcraft in many years now, and my inspiration has dwindled. It used to be that when I sat down to write MahiMahi or Truae, the words would just flow out of me. But now if I sit down to write, several hours go by without anything getting done.

I've got novels to write, video games to program, and lots of other things to do! I don't have the Spark for Truae anymore.

Nevertheless, I am very much against the idea of starting something and never finishing it. Therefore, I am going to try and post all of the text I'm still inspired to write. The remaining chapters of this fanfiction will be choppy, unreviewed, and skip long stretches in time. Nevertheless, at least I'll be able to 'finish' the story for you guys and perhaps sate curiousity as to what the grand conclusion of this tale would be.

Here's what I managed to accomplish of the next chapter:

**_

* * *

_**

**_The Beginning of the End_**

* * *

Silvermoon

Nathanos patted Vaiden's back awkwardly, trying to get the boy to stop sobbing. He was a little surprised that the child made no noise as he cried.

Nearby, the bratty little elf girl was still watching, her mouth open wide. Nathanos glanced at the girl. She blinked, and then sucked in a deep breath of air, as if to scream. "You make _one_ sound, and I'll rip you open, stuff you with sand, and make you into a doll for him. Is that clear?" She froze, swallowed, and bobbed her head up and down. Nathanos sniffed. "Good. Now run along home." She did not need to be told twice and bolted off.

The Ranger Lord snorted and then turned, stalking back through the bazaar, past Zeliek, and out of the district. The undead paladin watched him with wide eyes and then hesitantly moved to follow.

Nathanos sighed as Vaiden calmed down. It was disconcerting to hold the child in his arms. Disconcerting to hear his heart, to feel his meager body-heat... _Is it safe for him to be this cold? Humans are normally much warmer. Could he be a little ill because he used his powers? Or is this how he usually is? _

"Is he normally cold?" Nathanos asked with a snap, not even turning to look at Sir. Zeliek.

The paladin hesitated. He still wasn't sure if he was happy with Nathanos holding Vaiden or not. After a moment of thought he answered. "... Lukewarm, yes."

_Must be an effect of Ketala and I being undead. Come to think of it, I sense a lot of necromantic energy in him... Is _that_ safe? True he's normally this way, but is that really the best? Shouldn't the kid have as little necromantic energy as possible? It could be stifling his life force... Perhaps I could have the apothecaries look over him._

Vaiden looked up at him quietly, his hawk eyes whirling many curious colors. Nathanos docked his head to the side, his mind suddenly conjuring an image of Master Apothecary Fandall holding a syringe and smiling happily over the boy. A chill ran along the ranger's spine- quite a feat for a Forsaken.

_Nevermind. No apothecary. _

"Does he talk?" Nathanos asked, just as terse.

"No. Ketala said he has been mute from birth. She wasn't sure if it was a natural affliction, or if it had to do with Kel'Thuzad stabbing her in the stomach during the pregnancy."

The thought of Ketala pregnant was mildly entertaining. If he weren't so worried for the stupid paladin girl, he might have entertained it longer. Or perhaps he'd entertain it anyway. _A fat Ketala. Hmm._ He admitted, Ketala seemed a bit young to have natural children, but he couldn't' really use_ that_ excuse since _he'd_ slept with her. _She probably made a great mother. What in the nether possessed her to send the kid to me? Even in Naxxramas, she could have done a better job at caring for him. _

He frowned. _Something must be wrong. _What had that paladin said? Something about Kel'Thuzad stabbing her? _Kel'Thuzad... _A sneer moved over the ranger's face. Whatever the lich had done to his Ketala, he'd pay.

Vaiden tilted his head to the side, much after the fashion of his father, and then yawned and wiped tears from his own little face. He was asleep by the time they reached the tavern, his cheek nestled against Nathanos collar.

_I have a kid..._

_I need to think._

Ras Frostwhisper looked up from his wine and spellbook when the ranger entered. His eyes widened when he realized what Nathanos was carrying. If Ras had been asked to write a test- a test to determine whether certain individuals were safe to be around children- Nathanos Blightcaller would have scored in the bottom percentile, somewhere between C'thun, Deathwing, and Sargeras.

The mage stood up quickly, leaving his book and coming up to the ranger. "What is-?"

Nathanos snorted and gently moved Vaiden, pushing him into Ras's startled arms. "Your grandson," he answered blackly, and then he turned and stalked up to the second floor of the inn.

"Wh-?!" Vaiden shifted and blinked, opening his whirling eyes and looking curiously up at the mage holding him. Ras sucked in a startled breath. "H-how-?"

Vaiden cocked his head to the side. That was strange. Mother hadn't told him about this person, but he was _sure_ the mage was familiar. He lifted a hand, gently touching the human's cheek. Ras flinched.

"_Flower!_" the mage cried desperately.

The necromancer in question poofed into being in front of him, accompanied by an explosion of pink dust. "Here I am!" he cried, throwing his arms in the air like he'd just landed a particularly demanding gymnastics stunt. Ras gave a primal exclamation of overwhelmed confusion and thrust the child into Flower's arms. Much to the necromancer's credit, he actually _did_ take the boy.

Vaiden blinked at the jarring motion and clung to the interesting necromancer. Aha! Mother had told him about _this_ person!

Ras jumped backwards, breathing hard and clutching at his chest, trying to get over the sight of the child. He closed his eyes tightly, overwhelmed by memories. Memories strong enough to break his bond with the Lich King.

To be truthful, Flower would have scored lower than Nathanos on Ras's hypothetical child-safe test. In fact, the necromancer would have scored so low that the end result would be mathematically impossible. Even so, the mage needed a moment to compose himself.

Flower blinked, staring down at little Vaiden. He tilted his head first to the left, then to the right, and then leaned forward to get a better look at him, squinting. After several moments of rapid mental calculations, he came to an amazing conclusion. "It's a boy!" he exclaimed, delighted. "Why hello, there! I'm Flower. You know... like the skunk?"

Vaiden blinked, and then smiled up at the crazy old man.

"Aww. Aren't you the cutest? You want to see a silly trick?"

Vaiden just looked at him, but Flower seemed to that as a 'yes'.

"Alright, here it is!" The necromancer took in a deep breath, and then summoned a bit of electricity. He made sure he had control of it, and then touched it to his beard. BBZZTT! Immediately all his hair was standing on end!

Vaiden's face brightened, a smile appearing on his mouth.

"You like that, did you? Haha!"

He sucked the energy out again, and his hair flopped back down.

Zeliek stared at all this in bafflement, and wasn't certain what to make of Ketala's eccentric friends. He glanced at where Nathanos had headed up into the inn, but then decided it was his duty to stay as close to Vaiden as possible.

* * *

Theramore

"What will he tell Velen?"

Jaina shook her head. "I don't know."

"He could unravel all we have managed to do. All the weak peace we have drawn together. The tenuous alliance we have just barely preserved."

She was quiet. Despite all that was at stake, he was Thrall, son of Durotan and she was Jaina Proodmore. Yes, they had fought countless battles, and yes they had taken many lives, but they were _not_- they were _never_- murderers. They had screwed up, and this Draenei would not pay for their mistake.

Jaina had sent Nobundo to report back to Exodar as any ambassador would do. It was the right thing to do- the trusting thing to do. The foolish thing to do.

Thrall stroked gently through her hair. "Whatever happens," he murmured, "we will get through this together."

Jaina sighed. She didn't want to imagine how badly Thrall's prestige would stuffer if his people should know about his choice in mate. She supposed they would have to find out eventually... But at such a hostile time the ramifications could be horrific. And the Alliance would turn on _her_, she was certain.

"You did the right thing," he murmured. "We have always known the consequences at hand."

She nodded and leaned into him. Thick arms wrapped tightly around her, and tusks lips planted a kiss upon her head. Jaina sighed. She prayed for all their sakes that Nobundo would be kind. The world still needed them.

* * *

Exodar

Nobundo himself wasn't certain what he'd tell Velen. As he walked through the Exodar, many images passed through his mind. He recalled horrible memories of devastated cities and murderous orcs, and he recalled Kallah's smiling face. His people were slaughtered mercilessly. He himself had been corrupted and had wasted away into a feeble monster. Yet, somewhere in the world, two fools believed in peace, in justice, in hope, in healing.

His head was bowed in thought, his footsteps slow but purposeful. Kallah he could not mention. He had already sworn to himself that she was beyond reproach for the actions of her parents. Doomhammer's black armor, and screaming women tossed over the walls of the city... A face painted like a skull, Warsong raiders...

"I see you have returned, Nobundo!"

The Broken lifted his head and was surprised to find himself already within the Vault of Lights, standing before Velen. His feet had carried him there and left his mind to wander, it seemed. Velen blinked and tilted his head to the side, watching the shaman quietly.

"You look troubled, my friend... What has happened?"

Nobundo blinked at him quietly a moment, and then sighed. "I need to talk to you in private," he answered.

Velen frowned and nodded, gesturing for the Broken to follow, and heading for one of the inner sanctums of the ship. Nobundo followed slowly, still wracking his mind for exactly what he would say. He had already hinted that something important had occurred... he needed to say something profound... and yet he needed to protect Kallah, as well.

The walk was not as long as he might have liked. Soon they were safely beneath one of the small sanctums, and the doors were proofed against all sound. They were safe from prying ears, and Nobundo needed to speak. Velen turned towards him expectantly.

The shaman closed his eyes momentarily. _Spirits be with me. _

He took a slow breath, and then looked back at the Draenei prophet.

"I've engaged in an interesting experiment," he said slowly, the words oozing out of his mouth almost automatically. Velen blinked. "The Lady Proudmoore has a child in her care, a girl who evidences signs that she will one day make a great shaman. I sensed the child's presence immediately and eventually met her and was able to educated her in the art."

Nobundo had to be careful. He had to let Velen know without truly letting him _know_. "I was amazed by how easily the elements flowed through her. But also I saw that someone had already been teaching her art. My suspicions were proven correct when one day this child came to me and introduced me to her tutor."

The shaman took in a slow breath, letting this information sink in. Then he continued: "When she came here, Jaina mentioned who had taught _her_ shammanism. Can you guess who tutored the girl?" He asked with a weak smile. Velen blinked and then his eyes widened in surprise.

"The Horde Warchief was present at Theramore?"

The information tumbled out in a rush before Nobundo could stop it- like a tidal wave: "Yes. To visit his half-orc daughter."

Dead silence.

Nobundo clamped his jaws shut and closed his eyes. _Kallah is innocent of all this. And I start by presenting her existence _first_! Spirits- why?_

"You seem very shaken, Nobundo," the prophet noted gently.

"I have not seen that armor in so long," he whispered almost reflexively. "It was like a ghost from the past." He shook his head. "But different." There were chairs in the sanctum and he slowly made his way to one and dropped into it, exhausted.

"Different? The other Draenei prodded gently.

"He... He apologized, to me, Velen. On behalf of his race." The Broken shuddered and covered his deformed face. "He was soft-spoken and polite. And earnest. He even sounded ashamed."

Velen was quiet. After a long moment, he came up and put a sympathetic hand on the Broken's shoulder.

"They told me their reasons for it-both of them taking turns to speak, finishing each other sentences, exchanging banter and occasionally glancing soulfully at one another. They spoke of Hyjal, a similar tale to the one Jaina told you. Of the prophet who told them that only by working together could they thrive. That they had been friends ever since, and then..."

"You tell me that this girl, this child you were tutoring, is the warchief's child? That she is also Lady Proudmoore's?"

Nobundo huffed. "The child is an innocent and naïve creature, without a black mark on her soul." He paused, thinking. "And her unusual parents are free of any shame."

Velen tilted his head to the side. "You have suffered so terribly at the hands of the orcs, and you excuse this?"

Nobundo lowed his hand and looked up at the prophet meaningfully. "Yes. By the spirits, yes."

"Why?" the other Draenei questioned.

"Because they _believe_ in what they say," he answered fiercely. "They are two blind fools who believe in hope, in peace, in standing against a common enemy and throwing aside all doubts, all hatreds, all past wrongs. Two blind fools, and one of them leads the Horde. A passionate young idiot, who thinks his people can return to their shamanistic roots and slough off the curse of the demons. By the spirits, _yes_, I excuse it! They can have ten more children for all I care, and streak through our city naked, so long as someone out there believes in such foolish things!"

Velen lifted a brow and smiled as Nobondo stood up and began to pace. "How often does that come about? How often do two people from two such dynamically opposed groups come together? More so! How often does it happen that their _leaders_ come together? The two people most equipped to end peace, united, working together towards the same goal!"

He threw an arm in the air, gesturing, ranting. Velen watched him, still smiling.

"And yet how stupid! A thousand times this story has been told and a thousand times it has ended tragically. A thousand times, the two were broken apart, one is killed, the other follows. A thousand times the dream dies, a thousand times everything is for naught and the death and sorrow return. A thousand times, and this time bound to end just as all those before it, just as radiant, just as doomed, just as hopeless."

He sighed, depressed by his own train of thoughts, and not entirely sure where the words had come from.

Velen chuckled and slowly came up to his fellow Draenei.. "What have we to look forward to if not the dreams of fools?" Nobundo opened his eyes and looked over at the prophet. Velen stopped before him and leaned against his twisted staff. "I understand," the prophet said. "You feel obligated to tell me what you know, but yet you do not want the Alliance to be privy to this knowledge."

"You understand?" Nobundo inquired and then sighed heavily, terribly confused. "Good then, for I do not."

"Have you sensed a darkness in either of them?"

"... No... the spirits were very close to both..."

"Then is it strange that you cannot bring yourself to wrong them?" Nobundo tilted his head to the side, thinking about this. Velen smiled in his aloof yet compassionate matter. "I trust your judgment, Nobundo. If your gut tells you that this is how it must be, then we will trust the Lady of Theramore. Indeed, it seems a great boon to befriend someone who has the ear of the orc warchief. Perhaps many of our conflicts can be solved without more violence."

The shaman nodded slowly, pondering this new angle. "Yes... that is highly possible."

"Good. Now that you are calm, tell me this story again, but in detail. I find all of this quite fascinating."

* * *

Theramore

Daelin stalked back to his room the next morning, walking past his daughter's quarters as he did so. He was surprised by a tiny halforc who practically dove out of Jaina's rooms to get to him. "Grandpa!" she squealed, rushing up to hug him. The admiral grunted and eyed her. He was not in the mood for this.

"Why are you still here?" he asked a bit harshly.

She giggled. "Daddy stayed the night, so I did, too!"

That was not was Daelin wanted to hear. An ugly scowl moved across his face. Thrall was still in Theramore. Somehow that made it all the more real, all the more disgusting. After all, what would have compelled the orc to 'spend the night' aside from...

He grimaced and pushed past Kallah, now hell-bent on reaching his quarters. Kallah blinked at the furious energy radiating off her grandfather. She frowned and looked at her feet a moment, before tentatively hopping after him. He flung the door to his room open and began rummaging around his possessions. When Kallah peered in, she saw him filling up a knapsack with clothes and other vitals. She tilted her head to the side, confused.

"Grandpa? What are you doing?"

Daelin grimaced. "Packing," he answered tersely.

Kallah fidgeted. "Are you leaving?"

He didn't need much. Just a single change of clothes, some good boots, some fishing gear. "Yes," he answered after a moment.

"...For how long?"

Daelin wasn't certain why he was answering Kallah. Perhaps he simply had to to tell _someone_, and Jaina was not available. "I am returning to Kul'Tiras. I will remain there indefinitely."

Kallah's eyes widened. "Wh- what?"

He finished packing, closed the sack, and stood. "I am finished with Theramore," he said with a bit of a snarl. Kallah stared up at him, horrified. Even his nasty tone couldn't strike her harder than his words.

"But- but- you _can't_ go, Grandpa!"

He snorted and walked briskly for the door, moving past her.

"Grandpa!"

He didn't answer. She stared after him for a moment, mouth open in surprise, and then quickly hurried after him. "Grandpa!" Nothing. "_Grandpa_!" Daelin snarled and whirled around, unnatural eyes glaring at her.

"Get back in your room," he hissed.

"You can't go, Grandpa!" she exclaimed, coming up to him, trying to hug him. His eyes flamed, filling with rage and frustration. He seized her roughly by the back of her cloak and shirt, picked her just an inch off the ground, and then threw her backwards.

He didn't want to hurt her, but he needed to get her away from him. Kallah cried out in alarm and yelped as she hit the ground, looking up at him with big eyes.

"I said get in your room!" he snarled, advancing on her. She shuffled back from him, instinctively frightened by this furious and unexpected response. _That's enough. She's not at fault. _"And don't you _dare_ follow me out of this hallway!" he hissed.

"You can't go!" she wailed, tears forming in her eyes. "Grandpa!"

He snorted and turned on heel, stalking towards the tower staircase.

"Grandpa! D-don't go!" She hiccuped and sobbed and sniffled, wiping her face of tears and boogies, scrambling to her feet, taking a few steps after him.

Daelin didn't so much as look back at her

She stared after him in horror, and then bolted after him."_Grandpa!_"

He reached the staircase and headed down. She reached the staircase above him, but recalled his nasty directions. She wasn't allowed to leave this floor, not without her parents or her grandpa, and Daelin had explicitly told her not to follow.

Tears poured down her face she clutched the side of the staircase, cyan eyes following him as he disappeared. "_Grandpa_! Don't leave!" He didn't stop. "Grandpa! Grandpa!" she sobbed and hesitantly set a foot down on the next stair, vainly trying to follow.

"Up the _stairs_ Kallah!" he snapped back at her, without even turning to look.

"_Grandpa_!"

Daelin did not look back. He forced himself to keep moving, despite the heartrending wail of "_GRANDPA_!" that echoed after him.

And just like that, he was gone, forever. Kallah burst into tears.

* * *

Theramore

Thrall held Jaina supportively close, shifting slightly to the quiet music of the outside wind. The sorceress leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his. Both were silent, just enjoying the moment together, eyes closed. Both prayed for the future. It was late and cool air streamed in through her open balcony. Silver light painted her rooms.

"You are beautiful, Jaina Proudmoore," he murmured softly.

She smiled. "You don't have a last name, Thrall, son of Durotan," she said, as if undergoing an epiphany.

He blinked and lifted a brow in amusement. "So I don't. What of it?"

"If we married, you would have to take mine," she explained.

Thrall chuckled and kissed her golden tresses. "Mmm, Thrall Proudmoore. There's something inherently wrong with that."

"Oh agreed. But I'm not sure that Jaina, wife of Thrall is any better."

He laughed hard and held her tighter. "What about Jaina, wife of son of Durotan?" he teased.

She smiled brightly. "I think we shall have to keep our respective names. But here is a conundrum: Would Kallah be Kallah Proudmoore, or Kallah, daughter of Thrall?"

"I must confess my preference for Kallah Proudmoore. 'Daughter of' has never rolled off the tongue quite as easily as 'son of'."

"True, true. But in the orcish language it sounds quite fitting..."

"Ah, yes. Very well then. She would be Daughter of Thrall in the orcish tongue and Proudmoore in the human tongue."

"Very suiting, very suiting."

He chuckled and interlaced his much larger fingers with hers, feeling how thin and delicate her hand was in his own.

"...We talk about this subject frequently," the sorceress reflected, more solemn.

"Names?" he queried.

"Marriage," she corrected.

He blinked and looked down at her quietly.

"... But almost always in jest. Is that because you will be expected to produce an orc son as your heir, and I will be expected to produce a human one? Is all of this doomed?" She tilted her head back to look up at him.

Thrall was silent, not out of coldness but rather because he was deep in thought, contemplating the problem she had just posed. His dark blue eyes watched her intently. He stood there for a long time, thinking, letting different images flow through his mind. As much as he might hate it, Jaina had an exceptionally valid point. His people would need someone to lead them when he died.

Bed an orc woman? Just so that she could produce sons for him? It left a bitter taste in his mouth, but it was only way he could think of to preserve the peace. Still there was something slimy about it, something foul, something dreadful that he could not place his finger on. He dwelled on these thoughts for a moment, and then suddenly the source of bitterness rose unbidden to his mind, crystallizing into an image...

An image of some human general or prince hovering over Jaina, kissing her, touching her. Another male, breathing in her lilac scent, touching her hair, his lips moving along her collar. Another male living in that space, her space, expecting her to act like a lady, always frowning at the disarray, grimacing at the smell of magic, getting irritated when she was too busy working to come to bed, looking down his nose at the embarrassment to the family, the bastard child, Kallah.

For some reason, he thought of Blackmoore.

Green arms tightened protectively around the sorceress, pressing her tightly into his chest. "I will appoint an heir," he answered her huskily. "Orgrim passed the title to me, and so I can pass it on to another."

Jaina frowned. "But you are their visionary leader. You are the one who drew the clans together and brought them safely to this new home. You built Orgrimmar for them, you garnered the loyalty of the trolls and tauren. You even accepted the Forsaken and the elves. What other orc could do that? The clans will remain united while a descendant of Durotan stands in Grommash Hold. If you appointed another heir there will be infighting and dissent."

"I will find a way," he assured her.

"How?"

He shook his head. The 'how' was not important. All that mattered was that Jaina continued to leave magic devices scattered around her quarters, and cheese under her carpets, and that no one ever, _ever_ treated her like a vessel for extending the family tree. "It doesn't matter," he murmured.

"How can it not matter? We have a duty to our people-"

"The thought of you in some human's arms makes me want to kill the next male I come across. In light of that, I think we are doing the best that we can to lead our peoples. I will speak to all my advisors on this topic. We will come up with an alternative solution. I have seen too many miracles to believe in fatalistic predictions."

Jaina fell silent, struck by the conviction in his voice. She turned his words over in her head, and then just slowly melted against him, her whole body relaxing, molding to fit perfectly against his. Jaina was not male, and did not have the possessive, slightly territorial streak that all men seemed to have regarding their respective females. Even so, she hadn't been thrilled by the idea of losing her green-skinned companion to some random and unfortunate woman who existed for no other purpose than to produce 'royal' sons.

In fact, the whole idea was rather depressing. Actually, it was infuriating. Who the hell made up these rules of succession anyway? It wasn't like children were clones of their parents- just look at herself and Daelin! And what was it with men being valued above women, by the way? Tandrid Proudmoore and Jaina Proudmoore both currently ran their own nations, and from what Jaina was hearing she was doing the better job of it.

Eh, well, whatever. The important thing was that Thrall was nearly asphyxiating her he was hugging her so tightly. She thought of Kael and Arthas, and lastly thought of the blue-eyed orc who held her so crushingly close and promised that no matter how twisted and demanding the world was, no matter what his advisors said, no matter what Nobundo told Velen, he would never leave her.

Her eyes closed. This was where she belonged.

* * *


	20. Epilogue

Hey guys! I'm never going to finish Truae. In light of that, I've decided to make an early epilogue that details everything I'd set down to do for the rest of the fanfiction. If I'd actually sat down and written this, I would have gotten a lot more ideas, added in more short stories, and wrapped up the plots of characters like Umpi/Puma and Kael. But, as I never had that chance, and as I've lost inspiration for this fanfiction, I'll just give you the excerpt/fragments that I'd written down, as well as a brief summary of A) what I was doing as a writer, and B) What would have happened in the story between the excerpts.

Be forewarned that I have done no double-checking of this document. I haven't even reviewed or edited the fragments since they were written, and some were written years ago! This is the last time I will ever look at Truae, most likely... I didn't want it to be a polished effort, and and I didn't want to put much effort into it; but I wanted to share with you what little I hadn't been able to about this world, especially since I left you all so abruptly.

Please, enjoy.

* * *

The Epilogue begins with Nathanos:

Nathanos was already becoming a more mature, well-rounded individual after his experiences in Sithilis, and was finally admitting that he loved Ketala, and would stop at nothing to rescue her. Vaiden's introduction to the story, however, required Nathanos to mature even more rapidly. Suddenly, the Ranger was a father, and had to look out for a small child.

Ras was hard-pressed to believe his eyes. Without warning, Nathanos had become parental, doting, and as fussy as a mother hen. Vaiden would wander off whenever he wasn't looking, and run afoul of snooty elves, mindless scarlet crusaders, and hungry ogres. Nathanos, who would flip out and dive in to rescue him from trouble, was soon giving all sorts of extremely mature and paternal lectures to his quiet son. Soon Nathanos was making sure the child was always wearing socks and a little jacket to keep him warm, and worrying about his diet, and cursing out Ras for his poor babysitting skills.

Truly a strange transformation.

In the mean time, Nathanos was also constructing a full-blown raid against Naxxramas. He contacted his adventuring companions from Silithis, and found that a large portion of them were willing to help him in the Eastern Plaguelands. To his surprise, they brought him an elaborate set of armor, which they told him had been among the loot they'd found in Sithilis. When Nathanos asked why they hadn't given him this armor at an earlier date, they explained that it had previously been purple, and they'd felt if they'd given him purple armor, he would have killed all of them.

Nathanos is somewhat humbled with this show of devotion, coupled with such an excellent assessment of his character.

The armor had been bleached and dyed green and grown for his comfort, and so he decided to don it for the trip into Naxxramas.

When everything's finally in place, Nathanos leads the assault on Naxxramas. Things go well at first. Nathanos heads down the deathknight wing first, and encounters Mograine.

* * *

Excerpt:

Mograine laughed in a sickeningly taunting way. If Nathanos hadn't been so irritable of late, he might actually of liked this twisted soul. As it was he lifted his axe, intent on finishing the kill.

"Nathanos Marrrisss," the deathknight hissed silkily.

Nathanos sneered and paused midmotion "Blightcaller. You have something to say to me?"

Mograine smiled. "She's a foolish little warrior you have there. Brilliant as the sun, and yet so fragile."

The ranger's eyes narrowed.

"I warned her it would be better to give up her life and stay pure, then to let herself fall into his hands." He chuckled. "She didn't listen. So strong. Selfless. So foolish."

He reached down and seized the injured paladin by the collar of his ruined armor, jerking him to his feet. "Where is she?" he enunciated in a low voice.

"With her weak and selfish guardian," the deathknight replied. "And her weak but selfless pet. You'll find her in the depths of the citadel no doubt, although who knows what you'll recover. I tried to save what I could. Preserved through trickery an ember of strength. But by now it might have been smothered beneath the weight of ice."

The ranger snarled. "You? What did you do?"

Mograine smiled. "I broke her hard and clean and quick. I made her hate, and suffer, and develop passion for the darkness." The ranger's grip tightened, threatening to snap the weakened deathknight's neck. He laughed hollowly, no longer needing the air, and grinned ferally at the enraged Forsaken. "I killed her resolve quickly and covered it over with ash. Knowing that if I did so, I would miss pieces of her spirit. Pieces that might survive beneath the frozen exterior."

Nathanos blinked. "What?"

"I serve the lady in my own way. It was written that she needed to fall. But as for the future beyond that- nothing, no fate binds her. I could not prevent her capture- I am entirely Arthas's slave. But, from the depths of my own illness, I could destroy her so quickly as to forge hope that she might be revived."

The ranger stared, perhaps in awe of a cunning and twisted reasoning to match his own. Mad. The deathknight was completely mad. He wondered if that made himself mad.

"I knew you would come for her eventually. I could feel that her affection for you might outweigh her ties to her spineless guardian. So kill me. Find her. See if I have managed to save anything." His smile dripped poison. "See if there is anything left to save."

Nathanos regarded the deathknight and then smiled. When he answered, his voice was genuinely condescending and sincere: "You have failed to consider one possibility, Mograine. What if I don't care for _her_? Oh you understand she loves me, but what if I don't reciprocate? If I don't plan on saving her? What if I'm just here to kill her, fool?"

Mograine shifted, emotions stirred by the gravity and sureness of Nathanos's words. His twisted smile faded slightly.

"It seems, Mograine, that if I kill her now you did the exact opposite of what you intended. You brought about her damnation. If you had killed her before hand, her soul would have endured." He smiled. "You had a choice- one choice in all your miserable slavery, and you chose wrong."

The deathknight's smile dripped off his face, twisting downward. His eyes widened and began to blaze with inner energy. Tortured muscles shook, hands clenched. "You wouldn't dare," he hissed slowly.

"I have no love for the creature who so manipulated me. Ketala, Betrayer of the Light, dies today."

The deathknight shrieked, lunging at him with all his left over strength, clawing violently at Nathanos's armor, nearly wrenching the axe from his hand. The ranger grinned even as he stumbled backwards, working frantically to hold the enraged undead warrior at bay. He laughed at the deathknight's face, seized his hair, and yanked his head down to eyelevel. "I'll save Ketala, fool. It's all I'm here for."

He threw the deathknight backwards. Mograine hit the wall with a grunt, dark red hair splayed around his shoulders, eyes blazing, a look of hate plastered over his face. He glared at Nathanos, breathing heavily despite no longer needing air. His entire body was the picture of fury, muscles taunt, blood splashed over him, teeth grit.

"Zulock!" the ranger called, summoning the unfortunate paladin who had been attached to this misnomer. "Put a holy shield on him or whatever it is you do, and see if you and the priest can unscramble his brains!"

The deathknight's eyes widened "No," he hissed. "No! Kill me! Kill me! I cannot bare it again! I cannot bare this again! Kill me!"

Nathanos snorted, eyeing the once-more fragile ex-paladin. "You dare tell me about how you fucked her up... and then ask me to spare you from seeing the consequences?" he spit at the deathknight's feet. "You'll lead us to her. And you'll fight to save her."

"No..." the broken knight whispered, legs giving out as several priests approached him, clutching his own head protectively. "No..."

Nathanos smirked, happy to have out-unsettled the insane deathknight. He moved back into the ranks of his troops and approached Flower. As previously noted, the necromancer's personality seemed to have stabilized when in Vaiden's presence, taking on a grandfatherly, albeit harmless tone. Nathanos hadn't seen him cause any convenient accidents yet, but to his own surprise he wasn't vexed. Nathanos had no intention of leaving Vaiden behind, and Flower made an excellent babysitter.

Vaiden looked up at him worridly as he approached and then smiled with his eyes. A whirl of pinks. Nathanos smirked and carefully took the boy from Flower's arms, enjoying the feeling as Vaiden hugged his neck and nuzzled into his shoulder. If Nathanos was at all disturbed by this display of affection, he only had to think about Vaiden setting an orphanage on fire, and was pacified.

"Hey kid. Hungry?"

The child looked at him expectantly and he dug around in one of his belt pouches before producing a mushroom truffle, and giving it to the little one for him to munch on. In the background, Mograine began screaming.

The fact that Vaiden ignored the screaming, like any other background noise, caused Nathanos to frown. If the kid was used to shrieks of pure, unadulterated, soul-shattering agony, then perhaps Ketala had been right in sending him away. The ranger sighed. "The red-armored death knight is crazy and the priests are trying to fix him. He's frightened but they aren't going to hurt him. Promise."

Vaiden blinked at him uncomprehendingly, munching on a bit of truffle. Nathanos grimaced and held him a little closer. Naxxramas was no place to raise a kid. Come to think of it, Neither the plaguelands nor Tristfal Glades was a good place either. Probably not even Silvermoon. Kalimdor? It was difficult to say. He wondered where in the world Ketala might be able to give their son a semi-normal life.

_Just Ketala? And where will you be? Far, far away, where you can't keep her from the hands of insane liches? If what Mograine says is true, Vaiden isn't the only one who will need you._

He closed his eyes, and sighed in irritation at his heart or conscious, or whatever part of his wasted soul that had deigned to lecture him. Vaiden frowned and kissed his cheek. The unfortunate ranger nearly melted where he stood.

* * *

Nathanos clears out the deathknight wing first, as Zelik expects that it's the most likely place for Ketala to be held captive. After Mograine's taunting, it becomes more apparent that Ketala should be in the deathknight wing, but to everyone's surprise, she is not. Nathanos orders his priests to work with Mograine, and once the deathknight has been purged and is intelligible again, he weakly suggests that Ketala might be in the Abomination wing. Nathanos takes his advice.

While fighting in the Abomination Wing, Nathanos feels Ketala nearby. He leaves his group fighting some 'boring' enemies, and wanders off into Naxxramas, making full-use of his stealth so as not to be found out by Scourge. He finds Ketala hanging out with Cheshire, who is behaving amorously towards her. After Nathanos and Cheshire argue about which of them has more of a right to Ketala, Cheshire backs off, and Nathanos and Ketala fight.

* * *

Excerpt:

Ketala snorted as she sharpened her weapons and cleaned them of blood. She was not in the mood for Cheshire's antics. Skrit, skrit, her whetstone glided over the blades.

"Oh come now!" he lamented openly, eyes wide. "Don't tell me that you've suddenly developed an aversion to pie?" He held the sizzling treat in front of her, and the smell of rich blueberries fluttered up to her nose.

There was a part of her that knew how lovingly Cheshire made these pies, how much thought he put into them, but when he pushed the morsel up against her face she quickly backhanded it, and sent it splatting to the ground. In the same motion, she returned to sharpening her scimitar.

Cheshire was quiet, standing very still for a long moment, before retracting his hand and looking down at the rejected pastry. At least, that's where she presumed he was looking. As he lacked eyes, it was difficult to tell. Skrit, skrit went the whetstone.

Where Cheshire managed to procure all this fruit from was a mystery in its own. And one she didn't feel like solving at this current moment in time. "I am busy, _mage_," she hissed at him, multi-chromatic eyes glinting orange. The word was an insult within Naxxramas's walls. Here, mages ranked lower than necromancers. He flinched slightly, but she did not take back her words. Skrit skrit.

By now Cheshire should know better than to interrupt her when she was in such a mood. "Go back to your experiments and leave me be."

He was quiet. Very quiet, and for Cheshire, that was unusual. Most of the time he sported the grotesque smile that was his namesake, and at least appeared to be chuckling inwardly. After a time he slowly knelt and scooped up the damaged pie, trying to recover what he could of it, picking off spiderwebs and such and then eventually pulling off the whole of the delicate latticework with which had had topped it, along with much of the interior filling.

So very quiet. His silence was unnerving her far more than his bone-chilling laughter. Skrit. Skrit. Pause. She held still, orange eyes still looking down at her handwork. She ran a claw-like finger lightly over the edge, feeling a few imperfections that needed to be worked out.

Cheshire pushed the pie around unhappily, trying to get it to resume some of its former splendor.

She grimaced and then reached over and grabbed the pie from him, jerking it to herself. With no grace to speak up she clawed out a hunk of the pie, lifted it to her face, and ate. As always the soothing sweetness of blueberries flowed over her tongue, followed by the crisp texture of pie crust.

The mage watched her quietly as she took one bite, and then another. She ate the whole chunk of pie and took another, eyes still turned towards her scimitar. The moments rolled by as she finished the confection, licked her fingers clean, wiped them off on his robes, and then returned to sharpening her sword.

His mouth curled into a little smile. He wiped his own hands free of blueberry jam and then leaned forward and gently pushed black hair out of her face, pulling the strands tenderly behind her ear.

She didn't look at him.

He leaned closer and gently kissed her throat, just behind that delicate ear.

The scrape of stone against metal ceased. A disturbing purr emanated from the scourge mage and he opened his mouth. A wet tongue touched her cold flesh, erotic and exploratory, tasting her, kissing her. Pointed teeth nibbled gently at the base of her ear.

She inclined her head away from him to allow him better access to her throat, a sign of her mute appreciation. For long moments he continued as such, stroking through her hair and working tantalizingly down the length of her throat, to the base of her neck. Areas of rot were starting to show up along the muscles of her neck and he frowned to himself, displeased, before biting tenderly at the place where her neck and shoulder muscles overlapped.

She snorted, closing her eyes momentarily before looking down at him. "Why I let you waste my time like this," she muttered, "when far more impressive men have tried and failed..."

He smiled to himself as he resumed his kisses, one hand gently twining around her waist and the other moving to the straps of her armor, so that he might have access to the rest of her shoulder. She didn't move, either to assist or rebuke him.

"Mm, like Noth?" he taunted, easing off one of the shoulder pauldrons and kissing her chin as he did so. "Like Razuvious?" His fingers slowly unwrapped her gauntlets, stroking sensually over her palm and forearm. A gentle tug, and he removed the whetstone from her grip.

She frowned at the sensations, her fingers flexing as if trying to decide whether or not he was permitted to take the sharping tool away.

The fingers on his left hand twisted, mana flowing through his arm and coalescing into a weak fire-based spell. A warming spell. He pressed the hand slowly to the side of her neck, watching as she twitched and closed her eyes, savoring the simulated feeling of life.

"Yes," she hissed in irritation. "Why you, lowly mage? If anyone else _touched_ me I'd have their head. If anyone else dared to _interrupt_ me, I'd have their head. "

He purred softly, kissing along her collar, moving closer to her and drawing his feet up onto their perch, and then lifting his head to kiss her chin, and mouth, and the gaping wound in her cheek. Her eyes closed and she lowered her head, letting his lips caress her face and touch her eyes and nose and forehead.

He made a small noise of discontent and then shifted and drew out a medicinal balm from one of the pouches belted to his waist. She grunted but did not protest as he smeared it around her hairline, and throat, any area where decay had started to form. Satisfied with his handiwork, he pocketed the balm and put his arms slowly around her, hugging her as he nuzzled into her hair and kissed it.

She was still for a long moment, and then she retrieved her whetstone and continued to sharpen her blade, letting him cuddle with her. He giggled lightly and watched the methodical task, his fingers lacing tenderly through her hair.

Nathanos paused and stared, watching as the mage pulled hair from the side of her throat and began to kiss it, pointed teeth skimming lightly over her skin. For a moment the scene was very strange and cold, very death-knight-ish, but then Ketala lowered her head slowly, leaning her cheek into his robed shoulder.

The ranger cocked his head to the side, watching as the mage lifted a hand and proceeded to start braiding her hair. His other hand slid gently around her waist, and then down over her rump.

A quiet but decidedly masculine voice within Nathanos's skull politely informed him that someone else was groping Ketala, and needed to stop. Hawk eyes narrowed slightly. After a moment he lifted a hand to his mouth and coughed.

Both individuals stiffened. Ketala whirled around towards the noise, drawing both rune scimitars in a fluid motion and somehow managing not to impale her companion. The mage, apparently far too interested in achieving the perfect braid, did not release her, and merely peered over her shoulder at the interruption.

Someone had taken upon themselves to gouge out both her eyes, leaving only twin pinpoints of multicolored light. Burn flesh rippled around the hollow sockets in thick, permanent tear streaks. There was also a ragged hole in her cheek that turned her mouth upward in a cruel, one-sided smile. Ooh, and someone had filed her fingertips to points.

Despite all these changes, her dead eyes widened slightly upon seeing him, and he smiled nastily. "Mage," he hissed tauntingly. "That's _my_ ex-paladin."

"_You_," she hissed. "You've got balls coming here. Last I recalled, I could beat you in a duel."

He grinned, immediately dropping into old and familiar rhythms. Ketala had never been so caustic in her words before now, but he knew well how to turn an insult on it's head. "Yes," he agreed, taking on a self-preening pose. "I _am_ quite the specimen, aren't I? And what about your mage? Does _he_ still have balls?"

Her eyes widened, and turned blue-white. Hmm, they'd never done _that_ before when she was angry. Nice touch, Lich King. Seeing that the question had offended her and she was about to yell out a stupid and unnecessary battle cry like "For the Lich King!" or "My life for Nerzhul!" Nathanos turned his attention to the mage who was hovering over her.

Ketala tended to attract a wide range of very disturbing and interested personages, Nathanos decided it might be worth his time to determine what miscreant she'd attached herself to this time.

"So mage, do you have a name?" he asked spritely, walking into the room and absently picking up items from the alchemist tables that rested there. The entire area was sectioned out into various balconies and islets, all of which were unreachable by any stairs or bridges.

If this were the mage's lair, it appeared he was very good at teleporting, and more than a little paranoid. Nathanos picked up a jar filled with eyes, and looked curiously through them. Orc eyes? No. Troll, maybe.

The mage grinned broadly, displaying a smile almost supernaturally wide and filled with nothing but sharp pointed teeth. It was his single most distinguishing characteristic, and immediately blotted out all others in the ranger's mind. Nathanos lifted a brow. "Cheshire," the mage answered happily, perhaps sensing a kindred crazy-person in the ranger.

Nathanos smirked. "Suiting," he reflected. "Well, do you?" he inquired, coming up to the edge of the great vat and looking over at a nearby islet. It had some very interesting looking gadgets laid out on it's alchemy tables.

"Do I what?" the mage questioned, eying the ranger, who promptly stepped out onto an inch-wide pipe and walked, as easy and casually as he pleased, across the vat.

"Have balls?" the ranger continued easily, hopping onto the next islet and examining the various apparatuses that could be found there, learning more about his new adversary. To his surprise, it appeared the mage was good with _fire_ as opposed to ice. He saw a lot of very fine welding jobs.

Cheshire's grin widened a little more, something Nathanos had thought impossible. He gave Ketala a little squeeze and then vanished, reappearing on a balcony closer to the ranger and leering down at him. Apparently there was food up there, because he now had an orange in hand and was peeling it.

"No..." the mage drawled languidly. "But I _do_ have very talented hands..."

Ketala's lips parted and she docked her head to the side in a manner completely un-deathknight-like.

"I see that," Nathanos retorted with a grin, and gesturing around at all the engineering projects. "But then, so do I! Much experience with _elves_, you see."

Cheshire giggled at the ludicrousness of this conversation, enjoying the mindless banter as he examined the ranger curiously. Ketala had never spoken of Nathanos except for in the depths of her guilt-crazed nightmares, but Cheshire immediately scented that this ranger had been closely bonded to her. "True," he reflected. "And that would also give you a quick _tongue_," he reflected, before extending his own, which through necromantic cunning had been extended to a foot in length.

An abomination engineer as well, then. Not some hapless little mage, if he was working on such grandiose projects without actually being a full blown necromancer. Nathanos grinned.

"And of course it would go against saying that since we're both quite dead our _stamina_ could endure for quite some time."

"Oh of course," the undead purred, finishing peeling his orange, and setting to eating it.

Ketala stared at both of them, uncertain whether to be unmoved, revulsion, or embarrassed. The very idea that the two men, ranger and mage, appeared to be comparing their sexual prowess against one another, had utterly staggered her. She hadn't the foggiest idea what to think of it. For anyone to engage in such an argument at this point in time, particularly two undead men with no libido to speak of, was utterly ridiculous. Cheshire had been sensual about her of course, but he'd never even touched her _that_ way.

"Ah but tell me, mage, listen. Shh, shh... Hear that? Hear something out of place?" Nathanos queried, lifting a hand. "You're undead, you should be able to hear..."

Cheshire frowned mid-orange and did indeed pause. His eyes focused back on Nathanos (at least the ranger presumed they did), and he cocked his head to the side. "Heartbeat," he announced curiously. "You. Your heart beats."

Nathanos smirked, glad for once that the organ had proven itself useful, and placed a hand lightly over his chest where the annoying muscle was hard at work. He could have said any number of romantic things. Could have told the mage his heart was beating because of Ketala, that it was delighted to see her and agonized that she had fallen so far. That it beat only because he loved her. That because of it, the two of them had produced a beautiful little boy name Vaiden.

Instead, this was what came out of his mouth:

"Exactly. Which means I can get a little _excited_."

Cheshire jumped, and his jaw dropped. He gave no reply, a quiet admission that he couldn't top that. As if the comment had been in some secret insane-person dialect, the mage seemed to translate it, rolling the words over in his mind, slowly uncovering the deeper meaning hidden beneath the vulgar facade.

"Oh," he mumbled, tilting his head to the side, staring at the Ranger with new eyes (so to speak) and new respect. "Well then. But can you bake pie?" This translated from insane-speak into something vaguely like: _I care about her too. _

Nathanos shrugged. "It depends. Are we talking fruit pies or shepherds pie?"

"Fruit of course."

"Ooh, Ketala does like fruit pies. Does she still eat them?"

Cheshire frowned. "On occasion."

"Hah, that's all? No wonder she's looking underweight. You haven't seen her really eat then! She took me to the Darkmoon festival once..."

"Oh? And how much did she eat?" Cheshire questioned skeptically.

"About half her weight," the ranger reflected. "She likes sugar."

"I should enter this contest. _My_ pies are the best!"

"You should. You can bake the pies, Ketala can eat them, I can hate both of you and brood in a corner... Well, if you can get out of Naxxramas. And make it to Mulgore..."

"Brood? What's this? You lived among elves, and can't dance? Faires are a place for dancing!"

Nathanos chuckled. "Of course I can dance. I just don't like to, so I make a point to avoid mentioning my abilities to Ketala. … Oops."

"Blood elf dances?"

"Well, I don't like to brag, but-"

"Enough of this," Ketala snarled at the nonsensical conversation, which had started and ended in such absurd topics. She had no means by which to understand that both ranger and mage had been sizing one another up the entire time, learning about one another and establishing a pecking order. No idea that Nathanos had won, and through his hazy comments and inflections of voice had claimed Ketala as his and effectively neutralized the Scourge magic user. "Have you come to face me or not, coward?"

Nathanos glanced at the death knight. He was currently perched midway over a vat and the pipe he was on was squeaking perilously. He lifted a brow and then skipped nimbly onto the platform she was standing on.

Cheshire watched anxiously, cowed somewhat by the Ranger's cocksure demeanor and his obvious feelings towards Ketala.

Nathanos watched her quietly, barely noticing Cheshire now. "I'm surprised you haven't asked me about Vaiden yet," he said after a moment. "What kind of mother are you, exactly? You send your son halfway across the world on a frostwyrm with a mentally challenged undead paladin, to a ranger you expected to save you, but whom you haven't heard from in years, and then _don't_ ask me what's happened to the kid?"

Cheshire's jaw dropped, and he stared down at Nathanos.

Ketala's face didn't betray her feelings on the matter. "Very well then, ranger, tell me. Perhaps you will accidentally disclose his location for the convenience of my master."

The ranger lifted a brow, and slowly began to circle her. _That didn't sound very Ketala-ish._ "He's fine. Blew up an orphanage. Quite hilarious."

"And what did you think of him?" she asked coldly, stepping nearer the ranger, rune-scimitars gleaming.

"Little on the chewy side."

She lunged at him and he whipped out both his axes with lightning speed, countering her, twisting his body, and forcing her into a momentary deadlock. She tilted her head to the side and beneath her helm, and he saw her eyes flicker with light curiosity. He grinned. "I've been working out," he cooed softly. "Kid's beautiful, Ketala. If a little morbid."

"Interesting for you to lament his morbidity," she responded in an even voice. "You have quite a love for death." Nathanos smirked, forcing some of his weight down on her. To her surprise, she had to take a step backwards to regain her footing. The ranger had improved since their last meeting.

"Kids shouldn't be touched by war," he taunted. "Learned that from you." They broke apart, blades sparking against one another as they moved across their impromptu battleground, axes and scimitars diving, blocking, twirling. Another deadlock, this time with her gaining the upper hand, slamming him into an alchemy table and pressing down on him, threatening to slit his throat.

"Oof. Careful there, darling," he purred. "You might break something belonging to your new boyfriend." He grinned- he seemed to smile a lot more now-, and bucked his hips against hers. Enough of her was still Ketala and still unnerved enough by his earlier conversation with Cheshire to be thrown off guard, and he toppled her off of him and stood again,

She could hear it, feel it beating in his chest. The essence of life, her new enemy, beating softly at her. For her. _Because _of her. She snorted and launched herself at him again, resolved not to fall prey to that trick again.

"By the way, also found Mograine!" he teased. "Patched him up and saved his life. Aren't I generous?"

* * *

To Nathanos's surprise, Ketala is very _damaged_. She shows very little concern for Vaiden. He has to keep attacking her verbally, over and over again, to finally open a crack up in her mask. When he finally sees some indication that she still loves him and Vaiden, she flips out and tries to flee. Cheshire helps her, and Nathanos is left behind.

Unfortunately, no one explained to Nathanos that Ketala had a maternal relationship with that gigantic, Frankensteinian monster at the end of the Abomination wing. Nathanos's group brings down Thaddius with little difficulty and destroys the Abomination, freeing his tortured spirit. Ketala has an absolute fit, raging and screaming in Kel'Thuzad's throne room. Arthas's ghost whispers to her the entire time, planting all sorts of insane ideas in her head. By the time Nathanos finishes clearing out Naxxramas's other wings, Ketala has gone quite insane.

Previous to this occasion, Kel'Thuzad had taken some perverse pleasure in Ketala's downfall. On one hand, he hated watching his child suffer. On the other hand, Ketala had already fallen from grace, and so had been enjoying a twisted but stable relationship with her 'father,' and things had almost gone back to normal for both of them. When Thaddius dies, however, Kel'Thuzad sees just how badly he has destroyed his daughter. Ketala is little more than an avatar of rage. Her wings are starting to manifest and tear at the walls. Under the pretense that Ketala is out of control, and that she presents a threat to Naxxramas's foundations, Kel'Thuzad knocks her out. He summons Sapphiron, who is still damaged from his fight with Thaddius, and has the frostwyrm pick her up and fly her back to Northrend.

Kel'Thuzad ends up facing Nathanos alone. He explains that Ketala is no longer on Naxxramas, and that he's sent her back to Northrend, but he does not explain why. Enraged that this trip has been for 'nothing,' Nathanos curses Kel'Thuzad out and promises to destroy him and reclaim Ketala. Kel'Thuzad can say nothing aloud, or Arthas would hear. Privately, he feels doubt that someone as superficial and immature as Nathanos Blightcaller could possibly help Ketala now. But he also reflects that Nathanos hasn't submitted to the Scourge yet, and that it seems the true purpose behind his assault on Naxxramas was to save Ketala.

Kel'Thuzad loses the fight, but only because Mograine sacrifices himself to destroy the lich. Nathanos tosses Kel'Thuzad's Phylactery to Ras and they depart. The Phylactery, as per Warcraft lore, ends up in the possession of a man who promises to destroy it, but who returns it to Northrend instead. Naxxramas is called back to Northrend, refilled with monsters, and Kel'Thuzad is revived. Arthas intends to take Ketala on as his personal agent, but she's too unstable. After some destructive mishaps, during which Arthas has to seize complete control of her mind to stop her from causing unnecessary damage to Icecrown, he agrees with Kel'Thuzad that she's more useful in Naxxramas, and returns her to the flying ziggurat.

Nathanos is pissed. He hears Mograine's voice whispering from the Corrupted Ashbringer, however, and as per Warcraft lore, he decides to return it to the Scarlet Monastary, and slaughter everyone inside (which is very therapeutic for the poor man. He's missing Ketala more than ever, now). He kills Mograine Jr. and finds out that the ex-paladin had a second son, Darion. While waiting for Ketala to resurface on the global radar, Nathanos decides to take the sword and find Darion.

* * *

While all of this was happening, Ember and Zul'vii were adventuring in the Outlands. Zul'vii has started noting that Ember seems to be aging a bit too quickly for a Night Elf- actually, a bit too quickly for even a human. She considers the possibility that in the midst of Archimonde and Nature's conflict, both entities have been having an effect on the little girl. Nature, Zul'vii hypothesized, might be causing Ember to mature at an enhanced rate. She dismisses this thought for now.

As the spirits assisting Ember request, they go to Oshu'gun, the holy mountain of the ancient orcs. There they find the dying spirit of the Naaru, K'ure, and do their best to assist it and free Oshu'gun from taint. K'ure explains that there is little more they can do for it. He uses some of his remaining holy energies to help purify and protect Ember's mind, giving her a greater will and internal strength. He tells her that when she's finally found her uncle, she should make time to visit D'ore in Auchindoun. He seems to believe that D'ore may also be able to help Ember. In the mean time, K'ure suggests that Ember and Zul'vii pass through Sha'tar on their way to see Illidan.

Things go awry, however, when Vashj suddenly involves herself. She noticed Zul'vii and Ember while the two were making their way across her swamp, and she takes it upon herself to sedate and take Ember captive. She brings the little girl back to her headquarters, and Zul'vii has to track her down. Vashj intends to use a ritual to siphon Archimonde's soul out of Ember's body. She reveals that the process will kill Ember, but does not explain why. The assumed reason is that the magics would be too intense for Ember to handle. The truth will be revealed later on, by Velen. After extracting Archimond, Lady Vashj intends to devour some of Archimonde's power, and present the rest to Illidan and to her queen beneath the waves.

For once, all the many voices in Ember's head are in unanimous agreement: Vashj must not be permitted to succeed. While Zul'vii infiltrates Vashj's base from without and begins to kill off her minions in search of the girl, Ember wakes up utterly consumed by her alter egos. She has been completely eclipsed by Archimonde and Nature both,. The demon and avatar, fused together in one body, proceed to unleash total devastation on Vashj's base. Vashj first attempts to fight Ember's husk, but then flees. She runs into Zul'vii.

Zul'vii is somewhat torn. She knew Vashj just as she knew Illidan and Kael. Over the last few years, the naga had degenerated into something withered and magic-addicted, some disgusting. She pities Vashj and so does not kill the naga. However, she cuts off one of the snakes from Vashj's hair. Later, she will use some voodoo (and the severed snake-hair) to turn the naga into a harmless fish.

When Zul'vii encounters Ember's husk, she pleads with Ember to come back to her. Archimonde speaks and tells her that Ember does not exist, and that no 'Ember' ever controlled the little girl's body. He tells her that Ember is nothing more than a figment, a puff of dust stirred up in the fight between two _real_ entities.

Realizing that Archimonde is currently the superior force in Ember's body, and that somehow Nature has lost her grip on him, Zul'vii opts to fight the demon. Archimonde is amazing powerful, especially with Nature shackled to him. Nevertheless, Zul'vii's ability to heal herself, mixed with her voodoo, physical prowess, and other angelic abilities, ends up giving her the strength to fight him. While they're tussling, Nature breaks free of Archimonde's hold and begins to subjugate him again. Ember's body goes rigid, and Zul'vii promptly knocks her unconscious.

When Ember next wakes up, she is once more in control of herself (much to Zul'vii's relief.). The duo proceed on to Sha'tar. They meet Velen, who Jaina has brought to visit the city. He asks to see Ember, and is disgusted by what he discovers. He explains to Zul'vii that Ember does not actually exist. There is no soul with the name 'Ember' living inside the little girl's body. The only souls inside Ember belong to Archemonde and to ancestral spirits. The entity that Zul'vii knows as 'Ember' is simply an empty husk. Bodily instincts that have taken charge while Archemond and Nature are busy battling each other. This explanation is unsatisfying to Zul'vii, and so Velen rephrases it. Ember has no soul. Her body is not possessed by Archimonde, it is his _reincarnation._ The only reason Ember exists is because Nature challenged Archimonde for his own body and tried to possess it. The ensuing combat left a rift in who would control the physical shell itself. With no soul to steer it, the shell developed it's own weak personality. This personality is the entity Zul'vii knows as 'Ember.' She is impermanent. If Archimonde and Nature were to vacate the body, Ember would cease to exist, and the body would simply die. She only exists so long as Archimonde and Nature are fighting for her husk.

Zul'vii is horrified. Velen is determined. He knows that as long as 'Ember' survives, there is a chance that Archimonde will seize control and bring chaos and destruction to them all. He is uncertain whether Archimonde or Nature actually has the upper hand in the combat. After seeing that Ember is a fairly emotional creature, he stakes his life on the hope that it is Nature (and not one of Archimonde's deceptions). He appeals to Nature and asks the entity to remember its identity and it's purpose for infiltrating the body in the first place. He requests that it come with him and let him end the threat of Archimonde once and for all. Velen knows how to end his 'brother's' life permanently, without a chance for him to return to the Twisting Nether.

Ember, who is hurt, miserable, and enraged, gives in to her fury and attacks him, letting Archimonde rule her for a short moment. She seriously injures Velen. The Prophet realizes he's made a grave mistake, and that Nature is not strong enough to control the demon. He prepares to do battle, knowing that Archimonde might kill him in the process, but determined to wipe the Eradar out forever.

To his relief, Ember suddenly seizes control of herself and retreats. She pulls her battleclaws from Velen's wounds and pulls backwards, and tells him to stay back from her.

The tables have turned again, and Velen sighs, relieved. Nature turned out to be stronger than Archimonde after all- although just barely. He prepares to ask Nature again to come with him so that he can be sure of Archimonde's destruction.

To his absolute amazement, Ember suddenly hugs him. This is a turning point in the conversation. For the first time, Velen acknowledges Ember herself. He realizes that she does exist, that she has a very strong and passionate will and personality, and that despite her lack of soul, she is just a little girl. He is torn, but tries to explain to her that her existence is impermanent, and that it would be best if she laid down her life so that Archimonde could be destroyed. Ember stares at him. She's horrified and begins to cry that she doesn't want to cry, doesn't want to return to _nothing_. Moved, Velen at last relents. He does not have the strength of will to continue asking the child to destroy herself, not when the end result will be so much worse than death for her. Although it is against his better judgment, and although he believes Illidan to be beyond redemption, he arranges for Zul'vii and Ember to meet Akama, whom he believes might be able to get Ember to her uncle- and might be able to protect her if Illidan tries to consume her.

* * *

Here's the excerpt:

"Are you mad, Zulvii? The only good in this creature belongs to the spirits that hold _him_ at bay! They crave death, holding on to life only to fight against him!"

"And what of Ember, herself? Does her life mean nothing?"

Velen looked at her in bemusement. "Ember? Half-Troll, angel, there _is_ no Ember. This is not a real child, just a host body for Archimonde. There is no soul in there- just a demon and the nature that fights against him. Surely you have realised that by now?"

"How can you say such a thing?"

"I am not being callous. I can see it. 'Ember' is nothing more than bodily instinct and the extraneous products of the war going on inside this mortal husk. I tell you honestly that when I peer into her, I see..." he turned to look at Ember as he made his point, but the girl was nowhere to be found. ...Nothing," he murmured.

Zul'vii blinked and looked around. "Ember? Ember!"

Ember hacked at the stone with her claws, ripping gouges out of the thick rocks and screaming all the while. Small, dislodged pieces of stone nicked her arms, and dust burned her eyes, but she continued to rage against the boulder for a good minute. AT last she dropped to her knees. Her fingers kneeded the stone for a moment and then her hands slipped to her sides. The sharp edges of her claws brushed gently over the ground. She closed her eyes and trmbled. Tears slowly worked their way down her violet lashes, onto the pale curves of her cheeks.

It wasn't true. It wasn't true. She _did_ exist.

"Your deceptions shall not fool me, Archimonde."

She could feel Velen's presense behind her. She could feel Archimonde's disgust and hatred, both nestled deep in the pit of her stomach.

"I know your true nature-" the prophet continued.

"My name," she cut in with great deliberance, "is _Ember_."

"Be that as it may, you are composed of nature and of Arrchimonde. Archimonde wants to survive, and nature waits for this husk to be slain. I should therefore take your sense of self-preservation as an indicator of Archimonde's will."

"I am not Archimonde!" she screamed, whirling towards him.

"Then you are Nature, and I cannot see why you want this body to endure."

"No! I am not!" she shrieked in frustration, jumping to her feet. "I am not them! I am not him! I am Ember! EMBER!"

Velen observed her, marking the exasperated tears and the red coloration that marred her cheeks. Her jaw was tight in frustration, but he saw no reason to _prove_ his assertations to her. That would be like gloating over the fact that he outplayed Archimonde. Still, she was not behaving as he had anticipated. For a moment, he indulged her.

"Indeed? Then tell me about Ember. Who is she? What does she like? What is her favorite color?"

Ember blinked, caught entirely off-guard. She stared at Velen in something between horror and surprise. A shivver rippled through her and then she slumped, looking defeated at the ground. "I don't know," she whispered.

Velen lifted a brow and shook his head. "So you are most certainly Ember, but you havne't any idea who Ember is?"

She lifted her head and glared at him. "It is hard to be someone when every idea you have is selected for you by something that doesn't want you to exist," she hissed.

"So you don't know who Ember is, you have no thoughts of your own, and yet somehow you have developed and seized onto this concept of self-identity?"

"... It is the only thing I have. The only thing that is not theirs."

He tilted his head to the side, not quite catching her meaning. "What is?"

"... My name."

Velen fell silent, regarding her.

"My name is Ember Stormrage. My father is Malfurion Stormrage. My mother is Tyrande Whisperwind. My brother is Fenuine Stormrage. I _know_ that. I don't know anything else but that. I _know_ I am Ember."

"Would not death and peace be better than living a conflict-torn existance, knowing nothing more about yourself than just your name?"

Ember blinked and swallowed hard. "But... you said I had no soul."

He nodded.

"Then, if I died, I'd... I'd be gone. There would be nothing, forever." She looked at her hands. "Isn't that as bad as losing to them? As letting one side win? As losing my name? From where I stand, isn't that the exact same thing as letting Archimonde win?"

Velen frowned, and came up to her slowly. "Somewhat," he admitted, still not certain about what he thought of this whole 'Ember' thing. Still, he knew that he had to push Nature into control of the body. "Either way, Ember will cease to exist." He knelt slowly, so that he was on her level. "But as I understand it, soulles does not mean meaningless or purposeless. If you gave of yourself, then yes, you would die forever. But you would also banish Archimonde from this world."

"But I'll be gone."

"Everything dies. It is a part of life. The questions at hand are only 'why?' and 'when?'."

Ember shuddered, staring up at him with wide eyes. To Velen's surprise, tears formed and cascaded down her cheeks. "He almost took me. No, he _did_ take me. I came through the portal and then everything was quiet... and numb... I wanted to tell Zul'vii, but I couldn't speak. Then I couldn't feel, I couldn't remember _how_ to speak, I couldn't remember what was wrong. I didn't know who Zul'vii was, or where I was. I couldn't remember my name. I couldn't remember ever feeling, or breathing. And then everything was gone. Just gone. Not black or still or quiet, or dark or light, but gone. There one second, and then no more."

More tears slipped down her face, and Velen blinked, taken aback by the passion in her voice.

"And then suddenly I was back. He was being beaten, and then _she_ took me instead! Everything was getting numb, my mind was fading away..." She was shaking so hard that it looked as if she might collapse. "I don't want that again," Ember whimpered. "I don't want everything to go away. I don't want to fade. I don't want to forget my mother's face or my brother's hugs," she choked, her voice starting to rise and fall with her barely-contained sobs. "I don't want to die." She shudder violently and then slipped to her knees, and lifted her clawed hands to cover her face.

"I don't- I... I..." she choked. "I just want to find my uncle. I just cmae to find my uncle."

The prophet was silent, and he stared at her. An awful thought had just occurred to him. After a moment, he lowered several of his protective spells, and then made the largest gample of his life. He reached forward and gently embraced the reincarnation of his greatest foe.

Ember convulsed and snarled, whipping one of her clawed hands forward to sink the fingertips into his torso. Demonic magic pulsed from her tiny frame, and her fingers punched into his stomach up to the knuckle, like huge steak-knives.

Velen winced as a sudden heat rolled over him. He'd been a _fool_. "Archimonde..." he hissed, holy energy building up within his hands. There was a good chance he would die here, but he would take Archimonde with him if that was the case!

Ember forze at the sound of the archdemon's name. "No," she whispered. Then she broke into a wail and scrambled away from the prophet, shrieking: 'No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!" She crawled into a corner and stuffed herself there, shaking and pressing her hands tight against the sides of her head. "No!" she screamed. "Get away from me! Get away!"

The prophet grimaced but stood. He moved his hands to the terrible puncture wounds in his side, and quickly applied healing magic. When he was done, he looked over at her quietly. It seemed Nature had taken control of the body.

In a way, it was relieving to know he had been right about Ember's affliction. But in another... well... He banished those thoughts from his mind. He turned to leave, so that he might speak with Zul'vii and perhaps contact Malfurion. Archimonde needed to be dealt with- quickly, at that.

He was unprepared for when Ember stood up and rushed him. He noticed her movements at the very last moment, and spun towards her, all while preparing a spell. As she reached him, however, she latched her arms about his waist and smothered her face into his robes. The prophet staggered backwards a step at the force of her tackle and then looked down at her. A sour feeling welled up in the pit of his stomach. He had dreaded this possibility, almost as much as he'd dreaded the thought that Ember's whol story was a bluff to get him in Achimonde's striking range.

This made everything so much more complicated.

Velen's lectures had been harsh and factual earlier because he had based them on one chief assumption: that 'Ember' was no more than a mask or label. But he had been wrong. Somehow, by accident or design, the conflict between Nature and Archimonde had yielded a third individual. A weak individual, soulless and composed of nothing but blurred lines... but an individual none-the-less.

Ember was a creature capable of grief, happiness, lonliness, frustration, hate, and love. A creature with desires, goals, dreams, and hopes, with an individual mind. Ember might have lacked a soul, but there was no denying she _existed_. And she was just a child. How could Velen ask for the death of a child? Especially when Archimonde would endure into the Twisting Nether, but Ember would be gone forever?

The prophet sighed. He slowly closed his eyes, and wrapped his arms around the little girl.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled brokenly.

"As am I, little one," he told her. I shall help you in any way I can."

* * *

Before they leave Sha'tar, Ember meets A'dal, the Naaru leader of the city. After talking to Ember for awhile, A'dal blesses Ember as K'ure did, once more strengthening her will power.

Zul'vii and Ember do end up meeting Akama. At first, Akama is paranoid and refuses to speak with them, but his curiosity concerning Ember's appearance (recall that she looks like Illidan) eventually causes him to come forward. Upon hearing their story, he realizes that Ember is the little girl that Illidan thought he had killed, and that she might be responsible for the recent improvement in Illidan's behavior.

His plans are already set in motion, however. He tells Zul'vii and Ember all about Illidan and the horrors he has brought to the Outlands. He explains that the demon night elf has been lost to his desire for magic. Ember refuses to believe her uncle would ever hurt you, but Akama points out that Illidan already _did_ hurt Ember once. She's distressed but silenced by his claim, and wonders how Akama knew that Illidan had attacked her.

Akama asks for Zul'vii's help in invading and liberating the Black Temple. Torn by her loyalty to Illidan and her sense of morality, she eventually agrees. However, she makes Akama promise that they will only defeat Illidan, and _not_ yet kill him. Akama brings this up with Maiev. The Warden is almost physically ill at the sight of Ember. She hates Zul'vii, and has to restrain herself from lashing out at Akama. She knows that if she exhibits any rebellion, the Draenie elder will leave her behind, so she agrees to whatever Akama proposes.

Ember and Zul'vii help in the fight against the Black Temple. By this point, it is obvious that Ember has been aging unnaturally quickly. She is starting to have all the height and moodiness of a young teenager. Zul'vii decides she'll have to bring this up soon, so that Nature can cease aging her to an early grave.

In any event, the two join the battle. With Akama's brood of Lost Ones, along with defenders from both the Alliance and Horde, and allies from all over the Outlands, the group storms the Black Temple and seeks to eradicate the demonic presence there, permanently.

Eventually, Zul'vii, Maiev, Ember, and Akama make it to Illidan. The half-demon has been repressing his magical hunger of late, but the sight of Zul'vii and Maiev working together brings up old memories. Bad ones. Venom overwhelms him, and nothing Zul'vii or Ember says can convince him that they haven't betrayed him. He concludes their conversation by promising Ember and Zul'vii he will personally kill both of them, eat their souls, and devour Archimonde's essence, and then rushes into battle with them.

Ember does not take part in the fight. In fact, she retreats back against a wall and begins to hyperventilate. She' horrified by what Illidan said, and by the fact that he wouldn't believe her. The one person she trusted to be able to save her has promised to destroy her. It's too much for her to bear, and she begins to sob and claw at herself. An internal struggle goes on, as Archimonde and Nature both stir. Like with Vashj, Archimonde is concerned that he will be destroyed, and Nature is concerned that Archimonde's power will be in the hands of an equally horrible demon: Illidan. They attempt to usurp control, and are surprised when Ember, in tandem with the Ancestral Spirits, resists. Nature immediately gives up any attempt to seize control, and Archimonde is left to writhe and fume.

Illidan is able to drive Akama away from the battle for a time with the weight of the Draenie's sins. Although Akama confronted his inner darkness, the spiritual wounds still run deep, and will ache for many years to come. Zul'vii nearly overwhelms Illidan, but he's able to knock her unconscious, and only Maiev is left. He assumes she will be an easy kill, and he relishes the thought, but Maiev's determination proves stronger than his rage. She slashes him across the chest and throat, sheers off one of his wings, and lays him low. She advances on him as he sputters, trying to find the words for a spell past the gaping hole in his throat.

Horrified and still dearly loving her uncle, Ember rushes forward to stand between Maiev and Illidan. Ember doesn't put up a real effort to defend herself, only blocking a single strike from Maiev's weapon. She's too concerned about her uncle. Maiev knows that Ember is supposedly Tyrande and Furion's daughter, but she personally believes that Ember is the result of a tryst between Tyrande and Illidan (she does not know that Ember has a twin who looks very much like Malfurion, refuting that possibility.) In any event, she does not have any qualms about slaughtering the child to get to Illidan.

Akama knows this. He rushes up and tackles Maiev, holding onto her and wrestling her for possession of her Chakara. The woman shrieks and rages, but she cannot break free of the Draenie. While this scuffle is going on, Ember collapses to her knees beside Illidan, clutching at him and begging him to 'be okay.' She presses the wound on his chest, and then scuttles up beside his face to touch his throat.

Illidan reaches up to brush the tears from her face. He looks hazily to Zul'vii and then back to his niece, and realizes that he let his rage get the better of them. He realizes, too, that he would have killed them both if things had gone a little differently. He's dizzy from loss of blood. With his final breath, he had planned to curse Maiev. Taking a leaf from Sargeras's and Archimonde's books, he'd planned to infiltrate the woman and torture her from within. Although he doubted Maiev would ever have children, if she did manage to do so, he would possess them just as Sargeras had possessed Medivh and Archimonde had taken Ember. This would torment Maiev and see she payed for her sins, and it would also keep him away from the Twisting Nether for as long as possible, given his circumstances. (He didn't exactly want to return there. Recall that he betrayed Kil'jaden, who would be waiting all-too-eagerly for his soul to arrive)

As Ember begs Nature for the gift of healing so that she can save Illidan's life, he lifts a hand and brushes his clawed fingers gently over her cheek. He mouths the words for a spell, twitches, and then goes very still. Shadowy energy bursts out from him, consuming his corpse, jerking Zul'vii to wakefulness, and knocking Ember unconscious.

Akama releases Maiev and then sighs. The warden shrieks at him and claims that Illidan's life was hers to take, but Akama just tells her to hush, and not to harm the child. Zul'vii climbs to her feet, notices Illidan's corpse dissolving away, and goes very still. Akama moves to speak with her, explaining what happened and expressing his sympathy. Zul'vii gives him a quiet and unforgiving look which he cringes from. Then she goes and picks up Ember. She takes one last look at where Illidan died, and then carries the little girl away.

As a side note, Maiev attempts suicide immediately after Illidan's death. Akama saves her, despite wounds he suffered while trying to restrain her. He faints afterward from strain.

* * *

Excerpt:

"Why haven't you left yet?" Maiev murmured. She could not see Akama- not only was he invisible, but he was standing in her blind spot. Even so, she could feel the Draenei's twisted presence... something told her he was still there.

"I am waiting for you," he answered in his low, gravelly voice.

"Waiting for what? I shall turn to stone here. There is nothing left of me. It is all finally over."

"And yet, you've won."

"I lost the day Illidan almost killed my brother, ten thousand years ago. I lost the moment I became his warden."

"If you can recognize that, then you have have not lost." He came up beside her, his clawed toes dragging slightly against the stone floor. He was injured.

She was still staring at Illidan's corpse, not knowing that his soul had been stolen away, right from under her nose. Akama reached out and set a deformed hand upon her shoulder pauldron. She didn't so much as twitch.

"Only now can you finally heal, ex-warden," he murmured sagely. "Do not give up this chance."

She lifted her head, and luminous eyes gazed at him, so vacant, so empty. "I already have," she murmured, and she stepped apart from him, out of his reach, and walked quietly to the edge of the tower. Her eyes looked to the terrain below, where A'dal's forces were finally making headway. The Black Temple was free.

The ex-warden smiled- just a tiny smile, a quirk of the lips, and she stepped up onto the balcony rim, to get a better look.

"Maiev..."

She closed her eyes. Akama frowned, his brows furrowing, before he suddenly realized what was going through the night elf's head.

"Maiev! Do not-!"

She leaned out over the edge of the tower. Too far.

"_Maiev_!"

And then she was falling.

Thick gnarled fingers closed around her wrist. There was a terrible, snapping jerk, and then her shoulder had been wrenched out of its socket. She screamed, but more out of anguish and frustration than physical pain. Her descent had stopped all together.

She tilted her head back, looking up at Akama's face. He had thrown himself onto the balcony rim and was probably off his feet, holding himself up through the iron strength of his good arm. His injured hand was holding on to her as she dangled hundreds of feet from a very grim doom.

"Please let go," she whispered. "I want to let go."

"_No,_" he hissed. "No more death. Not on these sacred grounds. I have seen thousands give up their lives for this moment, none of which deserved the fate they were given. But y_ou_ still live. I will not watch you waste that!"

"Let go, Akama," she murmured in the same exact tone as before. "I'm tired, and you're hurting me."

He grimaced, and shook his head. "I _can't_. I cannot watch any more death. Grab on to me with your good arm."

Blood was oozing from his wounds and heading downward. It coated his fingers, reducing friction. Pain and blood loss were numbing his grip. She slipped just a little further. Maiev stared at him, wondering how such a destroyed person could be so altruistic. Wondering how someone could care about what happened to her. True, that someone was a disgusting, demon-mutated old Broken, but she presumed he still qualified as _someone_. And he was obviously in pain. Although Akama was strong, he was badly wounded, and she was wearing full plate.

"Let me go. I want to feel the wind in my hair."

"You can only feel it because you are alive," he retorted. His teeth clenched and his hand tightened around her wrist, squeezing the bones together. She winced, and then watched as he braced himself and _pulled_, slowly heaving her up the side of the tower, muscles bulging with strain.

That was something about him, she supposed. His unwillingness to give up, to yield, to forget. It was the characteristic that had led his soul through Outland when Kael, Vashj, and Illidan had all dissolved. Here he was, old, injured, and Broken, and he still had the relentlessness to haul her up over the lip of the tower.

She cried out as she tumbled to the ground, her dislocated arm flopping in an unnatural direction. He stepped back for a moment, breathing hard and clutching at his wounded arm, before stepping forward again and wrenching her arm back into place. She screamed and swiped at him, slicing open his hand with the metal tips of her gauntlets. He grimaced but did not back off.

"Not here," he gasped. "Not like this."

Blood trickled down his side, pattering over the ground. He had torn something while pulling her up.

Maiev glared up at him, hatred etched clearly on her face. After a moment, she realized he was weaving unsteadily on his feet, and a moment later he dropped to his knees, doubled over and clutching his side.

This startled her. She blinked and stared uncertainly at him, watching as he pressed close his injuries. He grimaced, clearly hurt worse than originally thought, and spit up blood.

"Akama?" she heard herself say.

He lifted his eyes to her, grimaced once more, and then fainted dead away.

Maiev sat there for a long moment, just staring at him, watching blood pool underneath him. Then she crawled unsteadily towards him, and placed her hands to his wounds, holding them shut.

* * *

Humbled and purposeless, Maiev carries the Broken Draenie to safety and ensures his wounds are tended to. She is empty without her vengeance. She has been it's avatar for the majority of her life, and quite suddenly there's nothing left of it. All that's left is a broken, weak girl. She contemplates trying to kill herself while Akama is unconscious, but then finds herself tending to the Broken Draenie, and admitting that perhaps, lying dormant underneath all her hatred, she'd grown to care for Akama. Her part in the story ends uncertainly, but with some small shred of hope.

This was something I could have included previous to the battle with Illidan, actually. Was still debating on it when I went on permenant hiatus:

* * *

Excerpt:

Akama was injured. The moment he climbed into the enclave, it was obvious. Blood oozed from his side, staining the water an unholy mixture of blue, green, and black. He grimaced at the discolored flow and touched it gingerly before moving further into the enclave. Maiev watched him out of boredom rather than any kind of interest. He sat down in a dryer spot of the cave and started pulling off his armor, that he might expose the wound and tend to it. One interesting part of the Broken Draenei's garb was the basket of skulls he carried on his back, and that he dropped first. Next he pulled off his heavy shoulder pauldron, and then his armored sash.

Maiev blinked slowly at him.

He was a hideously deformed creature, with tentacles sprouting from his chin, head, and back, and gnarled prongs jutting out from his arms. He had a fairly noticeable hump, and several other deformations along his torso.

But frankly, for how old he was, Maiev was surprised at how... _fit_ he was. Every muscle was well-defined and pulled tight under his skin- each one honed and worked to a state of perfection. If not for his deformities and his ungodly face, he might have even been...

Attractive? Ick.

The gash ran lower than she first thought, and before she realized it, he was pulling down the hem of his kilt, trying to be discrete about it.

By the time Maiev realized what he was doing, it was too late.

Her face turned bright red, and she continued to stare, even as he quickly drew his discarded sash up to cover himself.

She was going to have nightmares about this for weeks.

* * *

Zul'vii brings Ember back to Sha'tar, and prays that nothing irreversible happened to the girl while she was unconscious. Ember doesn't stir for well over a week, and requires the attentions of a healer in order to stay alive. Velen comes to visit and tend to her, showing that he has also come to care for the soulless child. He is perturbed when he and Zul'vii notice that the little one is growing horns, and worries that Archimonde has finally seized control as a result of Illidan's death. They set up wards around Ember's bed. When she finally wakes up, both Zul'vii and Velen are present. The little girl is quiet for a moment, situating herself on the bed and looking at both of them. After a long moment, she asks Velen to exorcise Archimonde from her and destroy him.

Velen protests, telling her that doing so would kill her. Ember shrugs at him and then nods. She tells him simply: "I know," and then looks both to him and Zul'vii. "I understand. I'm ready," she says.

Zul'vii is horrified and protests that Ember not do such a thing. She reminds the girl of her family, and remarks on the progress the girl has made, and tells her not to give up. She also protests that even if Ember wanted to die, she should say goodbye to her family before doing so.

Ember sighs and them and shakes her head. Without any explanation, she tells them that if they do not do as she's asked, she will ask A'dal to. Velen is torn. He insists upon talking to Furion, but Ember refuses to let him. After much arguing, during which Ember replies to every question softly, fiercely, with very short answers, Velen relents. He asks for Zul'vii's permission, and she reluctantly gives it.

Velen prepares a ritual to exorcise Archimonde. It takes a few days, during which Ember is eerily quiet, even around Nana. Zul'vii senses a profoundly powerful demonic presence in the girl, and is worried that Ember is finally losing her battle to Archimonde. She realizes that Ember might be using the last of her strength to permit this exorcism. When the time comes, she gives Ember a tight hug, and then Velen begins the ritual.

Velen draws Archimonde's soul out of the husk and uses old and powerful magic to bind and destroy the soul, scattering it into a thousand impotent pieces. With Archimonde finally out of the picture- likely for a very long time, if not forever- he turns back to Ember. With Archimonde gone, her body is solely under the control of Nature and the Ancestral Spirits. He expects the spirits will want to use the body to accomplish their own ends, but out of respect for Ember, he will exorcise them as well and send them on their way. Nature, he decided, would probably abandon the body without a fuss.

"Spirits..." he began, to coax them to leave of their own free will and make an exorcism unnecessary. To his surprise, the girl lifted her head to look at him, and said but one word:

"Ember."

Puzzled, Velen tilted his head to the side.

"My name," she told him. "It's Ember."

There was a long, silent moment after that, during which Zul'vii and Velen just looked at her, utterly floored. Finally, Velen found his voice and proceeded to argue with the body that there was no way it could be Ember. Ember could not possibly sustain her own existence, not soulless as she was. She asked him why this was so, and he responded that she ought to already know. She recalled, aloud, that Velen had said she could only exist in the space between a powerful demon lord and Nature, who both had to inhabit her body. Velen confirmed this was the truth. Ember then told him she _did_ possess both necessary halves of this equation, demon and Nature avatar. Velen disagreed, reminding her that he had just exorcised Archimonde himself, and he hadn't seen her gobbling up any other leaders of the Legion lately. She protested that she did have such a demon, and that it was not Archimonde. When Velen asked for the identity of this demon, Zul'vii responded:

"Illidan."

At which point I would insert a completely awesome and evil cliffhanger for what fans I have remaining to squeal at. Sadly, as this is simply a recapping of what I would do if I had the time and energy to complete this fanfiction, there is no time for cliffhangers. You will simply have to imagine a month-long dramatic pause...

Zul'vii and Velen are both caught by surprised. Zul'vii approaches her and asks her to confirm that Ember's spoken the truth. Ember attests that she has, at which point Zul'vii buries her in a hug and tells her all sorts of barbed comments that she needs to make sure Illidan knows about. Ember delivers Illidan's equally tart responses.

Velen is confused and surprised. He evidences joy that Ember is intact, but wonders at a great many things. He considers that this might be a ploy by Illidan, who could have seized control of the body, but then realized that Nature would not permit him to do such a thing. Together, Illidan and Archimonde might have subjugated Nature, but Archimonde had been exorcised and destroyed, and so it was much more likely that Illidan and Nature had worked together to subjugate Archimonde.

For awhile, Velen remains unconvinced that Illidan is any better than Archimonde, but then he sees to see the important differences between the two tyrants- at least as far as Ember is concerned. Illidan and the Nature avatar had formed an uneasy truce, leaving a wide berth between both of them which Ember could inhabit. The little girl suddenly had much more dimension to her personality. Her manner was stable, confident, intelligent, and even a little sly. She was a much healthier and stronger individual than she had ever been at any other point in her life. Zul'vii tells the Prophet that Illidan truly loves his niece, and that ends up being enough for Velen.

At peace with both her Uncle and Nature itself (which was sacrificing one of its avatars just to give her a chance at life), Ember begins to recover and become even stronger. She stays in Sha'tar a time, and then goes to visit D'ore with Zul'vii as K'ure had requested. This involves combating through all of the void monsters in D'ore's tomb and eventually confronting the void monster that D'ore had become. Nevertheless, when all was said and done, the naaru also blesses Ember. As this is the first blessing Illidan was around to witness, he is given the chance to analyze it, and hypothesizes that a sufficient quantity of these blessings might be enough to shape Ember a soul of her own. He suggests to Ember that they make it their quest to visit all known naaru, to receive a blessing from each of them. Ember agrees, but then says there was something important that they- both she and Illidan- needed to do first before they could proceed.

She returns to Sha'tar to use the portal Jaina has constructed there, and returns to Kalmindor. From the Azuremist Islands, she catches a boat back to Teldrassil. Her time with Illidan has caused some of his demonic attributes to appear on herself. Why this happens is not clear. It could be because Illidan himself was not born demonic, but rather gained that attribute after consuming the skull of Guldan. It is possible that the skull changes Ember's form the same way it changes Illidan. It could also be that Ember and Nature were always in opposition to Archimonde, and that their tolerance of Illidan permits more of his power to shine through. Zul'vii also eventually remembers to bring up the issue of Ember's premature aging, which Illidan reveals he has already put a stop to.

In any event, by the time she reaches Kalimdor, after her long trip to find D'ore, Ember sports small curving horns very similar to Illidan's own, as well as wings and partially cloven feet. These features are all less pronounced than they were in Illidan, and aside from looking strange, do not seem particularly nefarious.

Still, when she first appears before Furion, she looks every bit a younger version of her uncle. For a moment, Malfurion is confused as to who, exactly, she is. She's older than his daughter ought to be, for instance. But she is female, that much is becoming clear (signs of womanhood are starting to blossom about her frame), and her eyes haven't been tainted or gouged out. Her demonic attributes aren't as pronounced, and she's wearing the battleclaws Furion provided for his daughter.

It takes awhile for this all to filter through his head. Ember watches him for a moment, and then slowly steps towards the druid. Inwardly, she's not thinking of much, except that she's grateful that Furion is in between two of his extremely-important-and-secret trips to the Emerald dream, and actually awake and about. When she's only a few feet away from him, she swallows. "Father," she murmurs. Furion's jaw drops, and she moves forward the last few feet and throws her arms around his middle. The druid gulps and then wraps his arms around her, heedless of all the strange changes she's undergone. They hug each other very tightly, so much so that when Ember wants to pull back to face him and talk to him, it's somewhat difficult.

He asks what has happened, and she explains that Archimonde is gone, and that she has a great many things to tell him. She tells him, however, that he must reserve judgment until her entire story is told. Malfurion agrees, and so Ember sits him down and tells him her entire story, in great detail, piece by piece. As she talks, Malfurion notes how much she's truly changed, and that the largest changes are by no means physical ones. Ember was a raving animal when she last lived in Teldrassil. Now she is a stable and coherent young woman, who smiles and talks with her hands, and loves the giant battle-scared ray that follows her about. And she's called him father. Father!

When she tells him she lacks a soul he is horrified, and she has to repeat many of Velen's own words so that her meaning sinks in. Since he's seen what a beautiful person she's become, he feels even more awful and pitying, and reaches out to touch her face. Ember continues her story, all the way until Illidan's death, at which Furion sighs unhappily, and rubs his face.

"So... he is dead then," he laments. "I felt it, even from here."

Ember hesitates and smiles. "Not quite dead," she answers, and then explains what Illidan did with his last breaths. Furion is stunned and uncertain how he feels about this revelation. Ember smiles more and tells him Illidan's surprised that Furion would mourn him. She then goes on to say how she'd _told_ Illidan that Furion would, but her uncle had been unable to believe her.

Furion has every reason to doubt Illidan and Ember both. He's accustomed to taking the moral high ground, and he's accustomed to Illidan taking a much lower route. Throughout their lives, Illidan and Malfurion have ended up on the opposite sides of an ethical debate so many times that Furion had begun condemning him out of habit more than anything else. When Illidan had consumed the Skull of Gul'dan, Malfurion had exiled him almost out of hand.

But seeing how alive and happy Ember is makes him pause. He knows Illidan is dark, and that he has gotten far darker since his journey to the Outlands; on the other hand, if Illidan wasn't demonic, he wouldn't have been able to exorcise Archimonde from her mind. Troubled, Furion asks how he can possibly trust Illidan not to succumb to his lust for power and lead Ember astray.

Ember frowns, and is about to say something to defend her uncle, but then she pauses and thinks for a moment. Then she looks back at Furion. "He says you _can't_," she answers. "But that he will do his best to help me despite his failings."

Illidan is not a particularly humble person. He typically sees himself as the victim and Furion as the blind and unfeeling one. But in this one instance, Illidan _does_ know his lust for power had gone beyond his ability to control it, because he had lashed out at Ember and Zul'vii both. Furion has never heard his brother so humble. Moved, he chooses to cast aside his doubts and prejudices, and all the old paranoia that would convince him Illidan was up to no good. He smiles sadly, and nods. Then he asks Ember to tell Illidan that he _would_ mourn him, that he is grateful, and that he is sorry for ever assuming that Illidan's intentions towards Ember were anything but pure.

Illidan knows his brother has every reason to suspect him of foul play. Furion's words make him realize that his brother trusts him, and _wants_ to trust him. He promises to take care of Ember, to do his absolute best to protect her and her sense of self-identity. Furion asks if Ember has come home for good, but she explains that she now has a quest lined up for trying to forge her own soul. He's saddened, but does not protest. Zul'vii promises to watch over her, as always, to which Furion expresses that he is extremely grateful.

Soon afterward, Ember is reunited with her mother and brother. She stays for two weeks. While she is busy talking with Tyrande and Fenuine, Furion talks to Zul'vii. He asks for her own version of the events in Outland, and Zul'vii gives it. He asks about Maiev, and then finally inquires why Zul'vii headed out with Ember to find Illidan in the first place.

Zul'vii blushes at his last question, and apologizes to Furion. She explains to him she never meant to keep his daughter from him, she but that she had felt a great evil in Ember, and that her gut had told her to get the child to Illidan as quickly as possible. As Zul'vii is the Angel of Healing, Furion can understand that the troll might have had premonitions concerning how to help the little girl. Still, he's curious as to why the angel took years out of her time to get Ember through the Outlands. Zul'vii laughs and explains that she was trying to find Illidan anyway.

Furion is surprised and asks her why. Zul'vii grins at the old Druid. "Why do you think?" she asks. The Archdruid blinks at her, not taking the hint, and so Zul'vii just laughs and explains herself: "I will love that melodramatic idiot till the day I die. Even _if_ nothing good ever comes of it."

* * *

The war in Northrend would be long and fierce, and would involve the exploration of a lot of side characters. Darion Fordring is one of these characters. Nathanos did manage to find the paladin, and gave him his father's sword. To his amusement, Darion became convinced that the only way to save his father from the sword was to impale himself upon it. Nathanos was all-too-happy to let him do this (It's Nathanos. What did you expect?). He was surprised when this technique actually managed to free the senior Mograine from the blade. The ghost of the man then proceeds to lament the death of his son, and then chews out Nathanos for letting Darion do such a thing. Nathanos laughs and mocks the ghost and his son, until Mograine brings up the subject of Ketala. Nathanos immediately becomes bitter, and tells the spirit to leave before he brings Darion back as a skeleton. Mograine disappears, and Nathanos leaves Darion to the crows.

As the nations gear up for a new war on Icecrown and begin massing their forces, Nathanos throws in his lot with Sylvanas on a more permanent note, and promises to lead the Forsaken assault forces. No longer quite as hateful as he used to be, Nathanos encourages Sylvanas to make alliances, and to strengthen the relationships she already has. He works to help train Sylvanas's army, and prepares for the invasion of Northcrown.

Among other notes, Tirion Fordringsurfaces to lead the Argent Crusade, slowly tearing the Scarlet Crusade always from Balnazar. Darion resurfaces as a death knight, and leads his attack on Light's Hope Chapel as per Warcraft lore. Tirion stops Darion, and Arthas shows up to try and destroy the fledgling Argent Crusade. Darion casts his lot in with Fordring and throws the Corrupted Ashbringer to the paladin, who purifies it and turns it on Arthas.

Nathanos is severely pissed, because he misses out on the altercation, and sasses Tirion for failing to kill the Lich King. Tirion takes it in stride, now used to the Ranger Lord's ill temper. Through the efforts of Bartholomew the Revered, the Argent Crusade and Forsaken arrive on the shores of Northrend as shield-mates, and the Wrath of the Litch King begins.

Nathanos takes Vaiden, Flower, Ras, and Zelik to Northrend with him. As an aside, Nathanos's lifetime lover, Vila'thail, encounters him in Silvermoon the night before he leaves for Northrend. He's walking the city one last time. It was once his home, and he still has some sentimental attachment to it. He knows that he's going to Northrend to defeat the Lich King and save Ketala or die trying, and so he might never return to the Eastern Kingdoms. Vila'thail does not recognize him, but Nathanos recognizes her. She's unbelievably beautiful and almost glows with Fel energy. She is strongly addicted to magic, and has turned into something of a seductress.

Nathanos stalks her for a few hours, watching her life, mesmerized by her. He watches as she goes about her evening and meets with her new lover. Then he leaves, returns back to the Undercity, heads straight for Vaiden, and scoops him off the ground and hugs him. He holds the boy for a little while, rocking him.

Ras notes that Vaiden has made Nathanos more mature. I intended to include little hints and subtle details that conveyed this, but given that this is a summary, it's hard to drop such hints. Here or there, Nathanos would do something exceptionally mother-hen-like, such as save Vaiden from touching something hot, or scold him for not wearing his mittens. Silly details like this were meant to convey that Nathanos was actually mentally healthy and reasonably fulfilled for one of the first times in his life.

* * *

Jumping back into the past, Jaina and Thrall wake up the morning after Daelin Proudmoore has left Theramore, only to find their daughter missing!

Resourceful Kallah has snuck out of Theramore tower, down to the docks, and onto Daelin's ship! He finds her hiding in the ship's storage chambers soon after they've left port, and he's not exactly gentle about apprehending her. In fact, he pulls her out of an apple barrel by her hair. He's furious that Kallah would dare do such a thing, _especially_ after he'd told her not to. He's about ready to smack her, but Kallah hugs him tightly and buries her face into his coat, and he's unable to aim his swat at her face.

Whatever energy empowered Daelin to leave Theramore rushes out of him in an instant. His shoulders slump. After a few moments, he gathers Kallah up into his arms and rocks her, and rubs over her back. He's on a ship bound for Kul'Tiras, and Kallah is in danger. After awhile, he explains this to her, and then sneaks her into his room to keep her hidden and safe. He gets her some breakfast and reassures her that her mother will find her in time.

While searching the tower for her daughter, Jaina finds a letter for Daelin telling her that the Admiral has resigned and left for Kul'Tiras. She's exasperated and disappointed, but doesn't have time to deal with her conflicted father. Thrall is anxious and can do nothing but question spirits while Jaina searches. After two days of searching in vain, they concludes that Kallah is not on Theramore. Jaina worries that something horrible has happened to her, but Thrall assures her that he can tell their child is alive. Jaina wonders how Kallah could have possibly gotten off of Theramore, and questions as to why Kallah would even _want_ to leave. Off hand, she mentions that Daelin resigned.

Thrall grabs her shoulders and spins her around. He lifts a brow. "Daelin resigned?" he asks.

Jaina blinks at him and then nods. "Yes, he left a letter in my quarters yesterday. I suppose it was for the best, but now I'm worried he'll make trouble while-"

"Daelin left Theramore?"

"He... he said he was heading for Kul'Tiras. Why?"

Thrall reasons that Jaina must be inordinately worried (just as he was) if she hasn't connected the dots before this point. Rather than shouting out the answer, he tries phrasing his words differently, in one last hope she'll put the pieces together. "Daelin and Kallah are _both_ missing?"

Jaina stiffens, gapes, blushes, and then vanishes. When she appears on Daelin's ship, he's waiting for her on deck. His first words are, "What took you so long? You must be slipping."

Jaina is relieved that Kallah is on board. After talking to the ship's captain (who's confused about why she's there), she decides to use the cover story that she's here to talk to Daelin about why he's leaving Theramore. She begins questioning him on the subject. At first, Daelin is unresponsive, but soon father and daughter have goaded each-other into a full-blown shouting match about their different ethical opinions. The crew scurries past them in an effort to accomplish their duties and give the duo a wide berth. They've seen Jaina angry before; once, she wrecked a three-masted ship.

Kallah hears the commotion, and senses her mother's ire stirring the innate magic of the air. She hurries up on deck to find two of her favorite people in a shouting match, and looking as if they'd like to kill one another. Concerned, Kallah runs up to Daelin and hugs his leg. The undead man is furious. He looks down at Kallah and moves to grab her arm and throw her back to her mother. Kallah eeps, ducks behind him, and hugs his other leg.

"Please Grandpa, don't leave!" Daelin's eyes widen and he slaps a hand over her mouth, stifling any further words. He looks around worriedly, but it seems that Jaina's shouting drowned out Kallah's heart-felt plea. No one seems to have heard her call him 'grandpa.' Still, he's shaken by this near-reveal of the little girl's parentage, and concerned that she still might have been overheard. No longer angry, but frantic to protect his grandchild, Daelin shoves Kallah into Jaina, and says: "Get your filthy, snot-nosed little _pet_ out of my sight."

Jaina gives him a glare to end all glares, and then vanishes with her daughter in hand. Kallah's eyes widen when she notices her mother is casting. She turns and reaches for her grandfather, but she's too late. The spell goes off, and she finds herself in Theramore, grabbing at air.

Kallah is horrified and begins to cry, even as both of her parents gather her up and hug and shush her.

I was never sure what I planned to do with Daelin after this; only that I was sure I wanted to reunite him and Kallah. I hypothesized that he might eventually just take to wandering. With Cataclysm calling Thrall away from Orgrimmar and putting more and more burdens on Jaina, I thought perhaps Kallah might end up in his care, in an effort to hide her from the other world factions.

I had also planned to reveal more of Thrall and Jaina's past relationship, and how Kallah came about. Here's some fun for you:

* * *

Excerpt:

She was so much smaller than he.

She could rest completely on top of him, not one part of her touching the rest of the bed. Could curl up atop his chest, her cheek pressed to his throat, her shoulder nestled against his, her hips against his middle, legs drawn up over his thighs.

Sometimes she wondered if it was satisfying to him, this aspect of their relationship. He needed to be so careful when he touched her. She frowned slightly.

He always needed to hold back- and by a great margin at that. Not even his kisses could be rough. With a slight jerk of his head he could accidentally gore her with a tusk. Too much pressure and he could strain her neck or cut her lips, or simply give her an aching headache. Most of the time she needed to be above him, so that she could control the pacing and ensure that his weight didn't smother her.

His kisses were soft. Always soft. He looked up at her admiringly, fingers combing through her brilliant yellow hair, enjoying it's softness. She hovered over him and smiled lightly, her knees resting on his thighs and her hands planted firmly on his chest. Not an inch of her actually touched the bed, and he hardly minded. He liked the weight of her- however slight it was- pressing down on top of him.

Golden hair tumbled about her face and shoulders, gleaming in the firelight. Once straight and limp her hair now had a decided bounce or curl to it. Large, green, calloused fingers carefully worked out a tiny knot in the yellow tresses. So gentle. Always gentle.

His other hand came to rest gently against her side, helping to support her and enjoying the smooth texture of her skin. She blushed and then tweaked his nose!

"What are you staring at, green skin?" she teased.

"Pink skin," he reflected, smiling up at her. "Lots of ugly, ugly, pink skin."

She gave a lopsided smile and then lowered her head to his, kissing him again. He moved only to press his own mouth gently into the kiss, lips tenderly caressing her own. He tilted his head slowly to the side- so careful. The tiniest jerk on his part and he could slice her cheek open with a tusk, or even bite her. His jaws were wider, stronger than her own, and more suited to wild and sloppy kisses than these petite and delicate ones.

A kiss, another, longer, deeper. She pressed her mouth into his and then opened it again, letting her tongue dance gently over his lips. He shivered and twitched at each movement, enjoying these elegant attentions far more than he let on. His mouth opened slightly, and his tongue tentatively met her own.

_Gentle. Gentle. _He let her set the pace, let her lead the dance, felt the tip of her tongue slide gently into his mouth, brushing over his tongue and the gums against his tusks. His eyes closed gratefully for a moment before opening again, looking up at her with adoration. He tilted his head to the side and lightly mimicked her gestures. His hand lifted to the back of her skull, sifting lovingly through her hair and over her ears. He exerted a light pressure against the back of her head to give him some leverage, that he might kiss a little more intensely. She nibbled lightly on his bottom lip.

This was not orc kissing. Not by a long shot. He didn't mind, and rather savored the tenderness of it all, so very careful not to turn his tusks into her cheeks.

The first time they'd ever been together in such a compromising position, he'd been on top. The activity had left her face with many bruises, caused entirely by the force of his kisses. By unspoken rule it was simply better if he laid back and let _her_ kiss _him_.

By unspoken rule it was simply better if he stayed on the bottom. Occasionally she wondered if she ever grew tired of it. If being with her was unsatisfying. Always his movements were restrained. At all times he needed to hold back: from the most harmless kisses to the greatest motions of passion, he needed to keep himself under control. In check. Calm.

Never once could he throw caution to the winds and just enjoy himself, and surely, _surely, _something inside him craved to do this after the way of his own kind.

But he never mentioned it. He always kissed her as he did so now, with utmost tenderness and affection, each movement small and expertly executed.

They were both panting, grunting and gasping, linked bodies rocking back and forth with the motion of the event. He watched her face steadily, brows furrowed in intense concentration as he moved slowly, carefully, through the rhythmic steps of this erotic dance. One hand supported his weight against the headboard of the great bed. Another was coiled around her hip as tenderly as orcishly possible, keeping her hips moving in tandem with his own.

Her arms wrapped tightly around his chest and she breathed in deeply, deliciously, with every tender movement.

"Thrall," she gasped softly, her fingers lifted to caress his face and trace the rugged jawline. "Th-thrall..."

His body had long since grown accustomed to the delicacy of her own. At first it had taken extreme effort to hold back, to move so slowly and gently and carefully. Now it was second nature. Each time he'd grown more used to it, more ready. Each time his body had been more encouraging of the strange gestures until now, at this point, it no longer begged of him to push harder or faster. Each movement was glorious even in it's softness.

The song built to it's crescendo. His blood pounded in his ears as their breath grew raspier, more needy. The pace increased, becoming slightly frenzied and disorganized as his arms began to shake.

He couldn't move too fast. Especially now, in the moment of completion, of triumph, he _could not hurt her_. The song was spiraling upwards, screaming for him to submit, to follow it's journey. He watched her face as her eyes started to cloud with pleasure. His whole body shook. It took just a moment more. It was almost done.

Each time he reached this point, his body admitted that it had been worth the time, the effort. He gasped her named passionately, lovingly, and then threw back his head and roared as his body's enthusiasm struck a triple forte and his movements lengthened luxuriously.

She joined him with a primal cry, her tiny frame stiffening in his arms, cyan eyes wide, heart seizing in delight. The song finished with several slow movements, and then died down to nothing. He groaned and collapsed to the bed beside her, pulling her tight against him and showering her face with kisses.

"Jaina," he whispered. She followed her name with his own. Her fingers drew gentle swirls over the muscles in his back

* * *

Excerpt:

"Thrall," she murmured, her face somber. He blinked at her tone and his brows furrowed, at last catching on that something wasn't quite right. "We have a problem."

Had someone vital died? He turned his full attention towards her, wondering why she'd come to tell him this in private. What had happened? Did some matter require his attention now? "Jaina?" he asked curiously, taking a step towards her. "What is it?"

She shifted her weight, pondering whatever news it was she had to share with him. "This is big," she said at last. "And unexpected."

He shook his head, not understanding. "What?"

She gave him a lopsided smile and sighed. "I'm... Aegwynn and I have both verified that I am currently and indisputably _pregnant_."

For a moment his expression remained frozen in thought as he turned over the human word in his mind, looking for an alternative definition.

"Pregnant," she said in orcish, to clarify.

His lips slowly parted, and his jaw dropped. "Wh-... what?"

"Pregnant," she reiterated, in common again. "There's bread in the oven. Egg's in the basket. Meat's on the fire. Mageling's in the library. Up the pole, down the shaft, knocked up, fallen down, Pregnant. Going-to-have-a-baby."

He gaped at her.

"Presumably, a little green one with tusks," she reflected, tapping her chin. "I don't see this going over well with my ambassadors..."

_That_ got to him. He took a step towards her, reached out to touch him and then retracted his hand as if frightened he might injure her. He closed his mouth, swallowed hard, and then looked down to the curve of her navel. She wasn't showing yet- or perhaps she was using magic to hide it.

"_Mine_?" was all he could manage.

Her eyes narrowed at the ridiculousness of this question, especially after she'd mention the child being green. "Well yes, either yours or Saurfang's," she responded a little testily. She was pregnant after all, she could be a little mean.

His gaze lifted to hers again. "I-I... We..."

She nodded, willing to allow for the fact that it might be difficult to digest exactly what she was telling him. It had been quite a shock to herself just a day earlier."I've been told this is an occasional unfortunate side effect of sleeping in the same bed," she remarked wryly.

The poor orc. Here he outweighed her by a landslide, could tower over her, and now he was curled up on himself like a chastised puppy, shrinking down from her, an absolutely stunned look plastered on his face. Apparently it had never occurred to either leader that their actions might come to this very logical conclusion. She sighed slightly and rubbed her stomach.

"Yup," she said to his silent questions. "And I'm very hungry. I don't suppose you have... an entire ham, or something?"

Ham. He could deal with ham. He turned around and quickly stalked out of the room, shouted orders to his guards, and then turned back to her, eyes wide.

She regarded him quietly as he approached once more and slowly touched her arm. "You are... going to have... a baby?" he asked slowly, carefully, eyes searching hers. "_We_ are going to have a baby?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"Oh," he said in a very small voice. "What do we do?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. What are your feelings on the matter?"

He stared at her, at a loss for words. His hand slowly lowered to her waist, and he gazed down at the newly forming life within her. She smirked at his wide-eyed astonishment. "It appears you like it," she noted to him.

His eyes jumped to hers and he took in a shaky breath. "Jaina... I..."

"You don't have to be sorry. It's no more your fault than mine. We'll make our decisions on this matter together, and share the consequences. Alright?"

He nodded slowly. He could feel the tightened contours of her stomach now, where the tiny life was growing. She had probably waited until the signs were obvious before accepting her own diagnosis of the situation.

The spirits whispered to him. They could feel what stirred within.

The ham was coming, she could smell it.

"Pork," was all she said, and he nodded, turning to fetch the food.

She ate more than he had ever seen her ate before, and the old adage "Eating for two" made more sense to him. She attacked the ham with ravenous glee- which was good, because he didn't feel much like eating.

"First thing's first. Let's establish all the problems with this situation," she said over her ham. "We're two leaders on the opposite sides of a very gritty faction war. Horde against Alliance. Each of us has been struggling to work towards peace, all the while working very hard to let our people know we aren't betraying them."

He nodded. "This could jeopardize that," he agreed. "It puts our... erm... relationship out in the open, where it will be critiqued. We'll lose face among our peoples."

"Exactly. How do we propose to deal with that problem?"

He shook his head. So many things were running through his mind that it was difficult to think. He reached over and gently touched her stomach. Through his farsight, he could feel its heart beating. She smiled and gently placed a hand over his.

"There is a solution that we need to address immediately, before we go any father. There exist medicinal herbs that, if eaten, will end a pregnancy." He stiffened. "It seems like you are very much against that route."

"Jaina-" he began, choking slightly on the words, eyes widening. "I don't- I can't force-" he didn't know how to articulate his meaning, couldn't explain his awe towards this tiny life or his desire to respect the sorceress's life choices, and certainly couldn't choose between them, not like this.

"It's okay, Thrall," she said with a light laugh, squeezing the curve of his thumb. "Don't panic. I know you, silly honorable orc. I know you wouldn't _force _me to do anything. And frankly, you know know you _couldn't_ force me to do anything." She smiled fondly at him. "You like it already, don't you?" She pushed his hand lightly against her stomach. "Just tell me that."

He nodded weakly.

"Good. If we're going to keep it, then we both need to like it," she said with a wry smile. "You know as well as I that tradition and duty sometimes supersede emotion- among both our peoples. I didn't know what to expect. I had to know how you felt about it, personally. If you felt ashamed, concerned... anything."

"I wouldn't-" he paused, and then nodded slowly. "I have no desire to see it harmed. I understand why you ask me, however. And you? How do you feel about it?"

"I find it very inconvenient," she said with an evil grin. "But I have my suspicions that it is going to have little tusks and a preference for tea- so I've resigned myself to like it." He blushed and smiled. "Very well then. The first judicial ruling is thus: We will keep the baby. All in favor?"

"Aye."

"Second big question. Do we make it public?"

He blinked. "What?"

She grinned. "I have within my repertoire all the spells and cunning necessary to hide both the pregnancy and the subsequent birth." He frowned and tilted his head to the side as he considered this.

"I am not ashamed-"

"I am also not ashamed," she interrupted. "But I know that my people will not understand the truth. So, If we do not make the child's existence public, we might be able to better help our own people." This seemed slightly deceptive to the great orc, who shifted about until he realized he was having a sexual relationship with a woman of a different species, and had been hiding _that_ for quite some time.

"Perhaps that might be best," he said slowly. "You would have to arrange for its feeding and care, as well as for it's education. It could live many years in this tower you've built, with great freedom, and-"

"What?" she asked in amusement. "And where do you fit into all this?"

He blinked. "Me?"

"This child is half orc," she pointed out. "Half yours. Why on earth should she only live with me?"

He shook his head, not understanding. "We cannot live together Jania, especially if we plan to keep this secret."

"I didn't suggest we would. We're meeting together right now, aren't we?"

"I don't understand."

"Traditionally, the woman raises the child. Yes?"

He stared at her a moment and nodded hesitantly, wondering if he was walking into a feminist trap. While this statement of hers was true, Jaina was anything but an average woman. She was a great leader and mage as well.

"Am I a traditional woman, Thrall?"

He shook his head.

"Would you allow that I am just as busy as you are?"

He nodded. Please, spirits, let these be the correct answers to the questions she was asking.

"Then I think you should help me."

He blinked.

"One week the child can be with me, the next with you, so on and so forth. We'll split the task, the education, the feeding, the diaper changing, the thrusting it off on our advisors so we can sleep, the diaper changing."

He stiffened in surprise, staring at her. He opened his mouth as if to protest his inability to take care of a child. She crossed her arms over her chest expectantly, waiting to deflect his answers with careful and logical arguments. Seeing this he deflated considerably and stared at her, and wondered why he expected Jaina to understand this child rearing business any more than he did.

"But when it's little," he argued at last, "wont it... erm... need you?"

"Goat milk in a bottle," she responded evenly.

He imagined holding a baby in his quarters, trying to get it to drink from a bottle, or changing a dirty diaper. The entire image was _completely_ ludicrous. He opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it. He couldn't see Jaina doing any of those things either. The woman was so completely disorganized, he half thought she might misplace the child somewhere and summon him for the soul purpose of helping her locate it.

He'd probably find it hiding under a rug, munching on last month's cheese... Or perhaps dangling from a tower window, trying to fly.

A baffled smile crossed his lips, and he tilted his head to the side, looking at her from a new angle. "Alright," he murmured softly. He shifted closer to her and put both hands gently to her waist. "Alright. I can do that"

Her shoulders slumped in relief and she smiled as he leaned close and gently kissed her cheek. She hadn't really known what reaction to expect from him at her bizarre proposition. In a way, this proved how exceptionally well Thrall knew and respected her. She lifted her arms and embraced him lightly.

"I just request _you_ take the first week so you can tell me what to do," he begged softly.

She nodded and pressed her face into his hair. "Deal."

He strokes gently over her sides and closed his eyes, letting his sensed seep into her and surround the little one. He thought it might be a girl, perhaps. It's little heart was beating softly, fiercely. The heart of an orc.

He took a deep breathe, mentally preparing himself for years of child-induced suffering. "I can do that," he promised them both, mother and child. "I will help you."

* * *

Excerpt:

Raising children was a woman's business; anyone could tell you that. At least until they could walk and talk. If a mother wasn't available, a nurse took on that duty, or a grandmother, or an aunt, or a sister. Women understood these things, and men didn't, and that's just the way it was. By this virtue, it was also nonsense for a father to meddle in the raising of said child, at least before it was old enough to speak.

Birthing children was also a woman's business. It involved women midwifes, women maids, women mothers, and women family members. Men went off to fight wars while waiting for the process to complete itself or, if they were the sensitive sort, they paced about outside, anxiously waiting for the first wails of the coming newborn.

On occasion, the man would stand beside her and hold her hand. But in the times he lived in, this was rare.

Those thoughts raced through Thrall's head as he knelt before Jaina, out in the middle of the Barren's heat. The woman was propped up against a dead Kodo and covered in light flesh wounds. Her eyes were rolling back and she was shrieking and convulsing, her fingers twisting into the beast's thick hide.

Her water had broken mid battle, and not even she had even registered it. The labor pains had started while demons were bearing down on him, and she was no coward. She cast ice and fire down at them, driving them off, giving him the room to maneuver.

It was too late now. The agony wracking her was too great. The words to a teleportation spell fluttered on her lips, fizzled out, died. Her eyes rolled. Even if she could manage the words her energy was gone. She was exhausted.

"Jaina," he gasped, alarmed and completely at a loss. He took one of her hands and let her squeeze his till it actually caused him pain.

"Help me," she whimpered, pleaded, tears rolling down her face. "Thrall-"

"You need to teleport!" he begged. "I don't know what to do!"

"Aa-aah!" she cried out, drawing her knees closer to her chest, gritting her teeth as hard as she could. "I-I c-can't," she wailed. "Thrall-"

He grimaced and moved to stand. "I will find a druid or priest," he swore.

"No!" she shrieked, grabbing at his arms. "Thrall!"

"You need help!" he nearly roared, turning fierce eyes on her.

She choked at the fire in his voice, hair matted, face wet with tears. "Don't leave me," she croaked out. "Thrall. Thrall d-don't l-leave me." Her eyes closed in pain. "Aaaah!"

He swallowed hard, torn.

She ground her teeth together through a contraction and then looked weakly up at him. "T-there's no o-one but y-you," she whispered. "D-don't leave m-me... Thrall..."

Her sweat-slicked fingers dug needingly into his armor. "L-light, Thrall... D-don't leave m-me..."

He looked desperately around them, at the field of demon bodies, of the soldiers far off. Orcs, mostly. Shamans, warriors. No druids. No priests. Certainly no midwives. His fists clenched.

"Th-Thrall," she begged and he looked back at her and slowly siddled closer to her, wrapping his arms around her.

"I've got you," he promised. "I'm here, Jaina. I've got you. I wont leave. Tears spilled down her cheeks and she buried her face gratefully into his armor.

He didn't know what to do, so he just held her. That seemed to be what she needed. She shuddered and sobbed, but clung to him, her arms around his neck. He helped loosen her clothing and hike her dress up, in what seemed to be a terrible violation of privacy.

Certainly he'd... he'd _seen_ her before, but this was different. If an alliance warrior came upon them in this position, it would look like he was trying to force himself on her.

"Oh Light," she moaned. "Oh Nether... Oh..."

He readjusted himself and picked up one of her legs carefully, drawing the knee further against her chest, trying to help keep her upright.

The babe was crowning.

He swore. He left one arm around Jaina. With the other he ripped off his cape and quickly held it under the impatient child.

The human woman screamed, eyes wide. One of her hands got a hold of his hair and he winced as she likely tore some from his scalp. Helpless to ease her pain he just held on to her. Watched in sheer amazement as her body carefully completed this most magnificent of tasks.

Black hair. Covered in blood and spirits only knew what else. Head first, then narrow shoulders bowed forward to make the task easier. Then everything tumbled out, beautiful, complete, into his waiting arms.

Jaina slumped against the Kodo, exhausted. Shuddering from his own frayed nerves, Thrall gathered up the tiny babe in his cape, picked it up one handed for them both to see.

The little thing moved, the head bent, the mouth opened, and it screamed. Oh how it screamed. It hollered to wake the dead in long, plaintive wails.

Pale olive skin, thick black hair. A little girl.

A little girl had just entered into the world.

Thrall swore again and nearly dropped her, pulling him close to his chest, close to Jaina. "Look," he whispered fervently. "Jaina, look..."

The pain was gone. She basked in its emptiness, dazed, and then stared at the bundle with which Thrall had presented her. The little one was crying loudly, her hands balled into fists, her back arching in distress.

'I don't like this place!' she seemed to say. 'It's cold! It's bright! I _don't like it_!'

"Baby," Jaina mumbled numbly, her hands lifting to surround the child. She was still too weak to hold it, and so pulled Thrall's arm slowly against her, and with the orc's help managed to open the front of her dress.

Only minutes later Thrall sat beside her, dazed at the enormity of what had just occurred. Jaina had recovered and was sitting quietly against the dead kodo, her clothing restored and the little child asleep against her chest.

Sweat-soaked and exhausted she looked at him and gave a triumphant, thankful little smile. She lifted a hand to him, and he took it without a moment's thought. Took it in both hands, before moving to stroke her face.

"Are you okay?" he murmured anxiously, still shaken.

She nodded. "I'm tired," she told him. "Very tired. Can you carry me?"

"Of course," he chuckled weakly. "I just helped deliver a baby. I can do anything. Ask me if I can fly."

She stared at him for a moment and then snorted back laughter, turning her head to look weakly up at the sky. "Well," she agreed, "That didn't exactly work out to plan."

"That's an understatement," he noted, and slowly got both legs beneath him again, and moved to pick her up. "You've got the baby?"

"Yes."

He stood and shifted her weight in his arms a little. She was so small. She might as well have been a child herself. "We picked the name Kallah for a girl, didn't we?" he asked.

The blond magus nodded quietly, her cheek resting against his breastplate, her eyes mostly closed. "Kallah," she murmured.

He smiled, worried despite himself, and gently kissed her brow. The little one was right there, her soft black hair akin to tufts of feathers. So he kissed her forehead, too. "Beautiful little Kallah Proudmoore," he whispered.

Jaina chuckled, and in sleepy orcish responded: "Beautiful little Kallah, daughter of Thrall."

* * *

Varian was an awesome character. I like to refer to him as "Sir Foams-a-lot," for it seems to me that he is constantly very angry and foaming at the mouth like a berserker. Unfortunately, I didn't stick at this long enough to contrive any scenes that involved him.

I'd intended for Balnazzar, one of Varimathras's brothers, to take his place in the fall of the Undercity. In my version of the story, Varimathras would have orchaestrated the plot with Grand Apothecary Putress, but would have shelved the plot and focused on getting fully back in Sylvanas's good graces. While he was busy doing this, Balnazzar would have enacted the plan without help from his brother, and Varimathras would have taken Sylvanas's side. As usual.

I wanted the battle on Icecrown to kick off with Varimathras and Sylvanas finally admitting that they find something about one another enticing. I wrote multiple versions of this, but never found one I really liked. This was closest to what I envisioned:

* * *

Excerpt:

Sylvannis came up beside Varimathras. He was seated in their war room and working on sketches. When she entered, he glanced at her curiously and asked if she needed anything.

"Just watching," she purred.

The dreadlord lifted a brow but then shrugged and turned back to his work. "Very well." He moved to step away from her, to grab a new stack of papers. Gloved fingers closed around his arm, cold and possessive. He blinked and looked back at Sylvannis, and docked his head to the side at her very focused expression. "Milady?" he asked curiously. Occasionally it amused him that he was so respectful towards this female. Her hand was small against his arm, so delicately formed in comparison to him. But her touch reeked of power.

She moved slightly, bringing herself against him, the whole of her side flush against his. He blinked and frowned. She was in a strange mood again, and he had no idea what to expect. He looked down at her hand, feeling the chill of undeath through his armor.

_Hmm..._

He lifted a wing and gently settled it around her. His demonic skin was hot, and it seemed to please her. She lifted her hand and he moved slowly to retrieve the reports, leaving his wing pressed lightly against her, and hoping she wasn't about to break it. He was relieved when his fears proved unfounded.

"You are a very weak and easy-to-manipulate demon," she decided. "All the guile has gone out of you."

He snorted. "I am an exceptionally intelligent demon who knows when it is wise to act meek."

"Act?" she smiles leisurely.

He snorted. "Dreadlords are thinkers. We are excellent spellcasters, and fine warriors, but we pride ourselves on our ability to tempt, to undermine, to outsmart our foes. If I were more powerful than you, I assure you my demeanor would be different. Supercilious, haughty, proud, deceptive, and constantly making everything you said sound ultimately useless and foolish."

She smirked at his own description of Dreadlord behavior, and stroked lightly over the arm of his wing. "And you are not, because...?"

"I seem to recall being pinned into a corner with a knife in my face, pleading for my life," he reflected. "I greet my minions with arrogant snarls. I wonder if they would respect me if they realized how I fear you."

"You have become very honest since your latest defeat," she teased gently, watching as he reviewed the papers in his hands.

He snorted. "I believed once that I could use you to enhance my position among the Nathreziem. I made a mistake in trusting Arthas. I lost my chance to prove stronger or more cunning than you. Now you are responsible for my continued existence, and you are able to see into my mind. Therefore: I find it wise to be humble. And frank." He smiled wryly at her. "I understand this game. I do what you will, and I benefit. And if I play the game well enough, in the future, the rules will be more lax."

Her lips spread into a cruel smile. "If you can convince me to let you live that long," she agreed, and it seemed she almost welcomed the challenge this time. Some recent happening had stabilized her emotions and Varimathras, for one, was grateful.

His wing coiled around her slightly, emphasizing the mild and very demonic affection that accompanied his slight threat.

Things were normal again. Better than normal. Sylvanis smirked and leaned into the demon's side, enjoying the smell of sulfur, and the heat of his skin. She had a moment's respite, and tormenting her majordomo was her favorite extracurricular pastime. One of her hands moved lightly over his armor, and then dipped, fingers brushing under the fabric of his loincloth.

He made a noise of displeasure, still focusing on the documents, hoping that if he ignored her, she would stop. She felt that he should have known better, and took the opportunity to grope him. In a past life she would have found such behavior exceptionally demeaning to herself, but these random irritations on her part were all that kept her sane.

Varimathras grunted and eyed her. "If you are going to keep doing that, I request the services of a succubus."

"Meek, guileless, and with no self control," she teased.

"I'm a demon, woman. I'm by no stretch of the imagination above temptation. Otherwise, I wouldn't _be_ a demon."

"Oh please. This is nothing. Your ability to ignore mild temptations should be paramount."

Varimathras grunted. "Do you have any idea how long it is since I've been in your company?" he asked her.

She reflected. "Six years or so. Why?"

"Do I need to remind you what happens to other females who attempt to touch me?"

She docked her head to the side, vaguely remember pulping a few succubae heads... Comprehension dawned in her eyes, and she eyed him incredulously.

"Oh," she realized. "Six years?"

"Six years, two months, three days," he reflected. "So, if you are going to continue touching me, I must request the services of a- preferably live- succubus. I have had a very trying six years, and could _certainly _use the relaxation."

She eyed him for a long moment before retracting her hand and wiping it off on him.

"Thank you," he stated honestly, and returned to his work.

After a moment, she couldn't help but tease further. "Preferably live? Possibly not?"

He sighed.

"So, is it undead you like, or is it corpses?"

He grimaced, but then a thought occurred to him and his mouth dripped into a thickly charming faux smile. "Sylvanis, my Queen, you should know by now how utterly _intoxicating_ I find you," he said coyly, enjoying this opportunity to bother her. He knew that the banshee queen loathed her unlife, and that his speech patterns would open old wounds.

Sylvanis blinked, brows lifting, and he turned towards her, his wings opening slightly. "Skin of fairest porcelain, eyes like hellfire, lips a glowing violet- a true model of beauty, preserved forever by the kiss of death," he continued.

Her mouth formed into a thin line, and he laughed inwardly.

"Is that so?" she asked quietly.

"Oh, _yes_," he purred.

Only when she began to smile evilly did he realize he'd been outmaneuvered. "Then, you may keep me company tonight."

What little color he had drained from his face. Never, not in a thousand years, would he expect Sylvannas to petition him for something like that. He _disgusted_ her. He was a means to an end in her eyes- nothing more.

She smiled so fiercely that she showed off both rows of her pearly teeth. "I do get... _cold_ in the evenings, she murmured, and she reached over to to stroke the membrane of one of his wings.

Ah. Well. Hmm. Varimthras tried very hard to determine how he was going to use this to his advantage. At last he came to the distressing realization that, somehow, Sylvanas was and always had been a better tempter than him, and she had completely and thoroughly won this round.

"Very well," he growled unhappily, and pulled his wings back to himself. He was not feeling particularly affectionate at the moment. Aroused, yes, but he was doing his best to hide that, and 'aroused' was not a synonym for 'affectionate.'

Sylvanas laughed, leaned over him, and placed a kiss at the base of one of his horns. Then she left.

* * *

After this, I didn't have much planned for the war with the Lich King yet. I intended to work on it, and I had ghosts of ideas (especially involving Sapphiron), but let's be honest: I never even played through Burning Crusade, and I would have been writing Wrath of the Lich King using nothing more than Wowwiki. It was hard enough doing that for the Burning Crusade!

I intended for Nathanos to re-enter Naxxramas just before the final battle on Northrend, and for him to be allied with Tirion Fordring and Darion Mograine at the time. At this point, so much time has passed that Nathanos has become a much stronger character, a reasonable (if somewhat overprotective) father, and dedicated to freeing Ketala. Ketala, on the other hand, has become a cold avatar of loathing, utterly dedicated to Kel'Thuzad and the Lich King.

The shade of Arthas would remain with Ketala, and I intended that it should more or less seduce her further and further into his grasp. I was never certain if I wanted this seduction to be anything more than metaphorical. From the beginning of MahiMahi, however, I knew precisely how Ketala had come to be.

Ketala was Truae. The last person born with the gift of Truae was Azshara, the Night Elf Queen. Azshara was naturally charismatic and powerful, and the Truae gift enhanced all of the characteristics that Azshara already possessed. However, she became so unbelievably strong that her gift turned on itself, and turned dark and polluted. The Forces That Be chose Ketala as the next Truae, because she was the opposite of Azshara. She was _supposed_ to be an emotionaless, personality-less elemental being, caged within a human body. With the Truae gift bestowed upon her, she would have no direction, no personality, no goal, except for those set down by her angelic spirit.

But something went wrong. When Ketala was born, she was without will. The elemental forces at war within her body canceled one another out. She needed to be 'driven', by a necromancer, like a golem. This was not good enough for the Lich King, who wanted to create a Champion for himself now that he and Arthas were to be joined as one entity. Rather than leaving Ketala an empty husk, Arthas entreated Frostmmourne to give up up a soul fragment with which to animate her. Frostmourne resisted, and so the fallen prince used what small holy energy still belonged to him in order to compell the sword to do this. Frostmourne obeyed, but was very spiteful. Unbeknownst to Arthas, Frostmourne did not regurgitate any old soul; instead, it gave up the last pure fragment of Arthas's _own_ soul.

This was why, when their minds touched, The Lich King and Ketala ended up exchanging parts of their ego. Ketala's soul fragment had long since grown into a fully-developed soul, and the Lich King's 'soul' was now a fusion of Arthas's and Nerzhul's, and was held within Frostmourne. Nevertheless, a spiritual tie still connected them. That tie forced Arthas to keep the bulk of his forces in Northrend while Ketala was strong; it also permitted him to damn her.

This would also make it really, really funny to talk about Nathanos as Ketala's proverbial 'soul mate', given her soul had originated from a male donor. It would leave Nathanos feeling icky for decades afterwards.

But I digress. I was not certain how I wanted Nathanos's second invasion of Naxxramas to work, or in what order he would deal with its inhabitants. I did know, however, that he would somehow be able to reach what good remained in Ketala. I suspected he would do this by forcing Ketala to decide between siding with him or siding with Kel'Thuzad, and I figured he would do it in a suitably dramatic way; perhaps by surrendering to Kel'Thuzad and then riling the lich up so badly that the ex-necromancer began tearing him apart. However, this seemed a little cliché, especially considering how fall Ketala had fallen by this point. In any event, I intended for Ketala to be the one who finally killed Kel'Thuzad.

* * *

Excerpt:

Nathanos didn't move, holding her to his chest tightly. She wept helplessly into his shoulder, her whole body shaking violently. "Gone," she whispered. "All gone. All broken and failed, again, and again. All gone."

He shook his head and squeezed her, treasuring the feeling of her soft black hair against his cheek. He adjusted himself and pressed her cheek to his heart instead. "No, no," he murmured. "Listen. Do you hear that?" The organ thrummed softly in the confines of his chest, beating quickly, unhappily

She shuddered and clutched at his arm, feeling the beautiful heart fluttering. "I'm here," he whispered. "I'm still here. And it is beating for you- just you. I won't leave you alone. I'm not gone."

"Why?" she gasped up at him, opening her eyes weakly, both gray. In their time together, Nathanos had never been so kind. Their years apart had changed him.

He frowned, as if slightly hurt that she did not know the very obvious answer. "Because I love you," he whispered. "You are mine and I am yours, and that's just the way it is."

No tears trickled down her face. She no longer had any tear ducts to shed them. Her mouth- or what was left of it- trembled. Her eyes were losing focus and she could barely see him. She was going more and more limp in his arms. "I'm broken," she replied in a small and tortured voice. "I cannot go back. I can't leave.

He smiled weakly. "That doesn't matter. You're still mine. I will always want you." She stared as he lowered his head protectively over hers and wrapped his cape about her, to shield her from the falling debris. "Wherever you go, I follow. I'm not leaving without you. Not again."

The necropolis shuddered around them. A massive boulder landed to their right, crushing a fleeing ghoul. Too broken and miserable to care, Ketala just wept. Nathanos closed his eyes.

Poor Vaiden. At least the kid would be in good hands. Between Cheshire, Zeliek, Tirion, Flower, and Ras he might grow up with the perfect nutritional balance of paladinhood and insanity. It did bother him that there weren't any elves in the boy's life. It seemed his legacy as the only human Ranger Lord would be a permanent one.

The necropolis began to seriously plummet as it dissolved and still Ketala did not relent, her wing tendrils boring into the core of the place, seeking to destroy the abomination that was Naxxramas with all her being. And wanting, wanting so badly, for the suffering to end.

He rubbed her back lovingly. "I'm here," he murmured softly as the citadel rapidly accelerated downwards. The teleportation scroll dropped from his fingers and he enfolded her in a crushing hug. "I love you."

The wind whistled through the cracks in the architecture. More stones fell, others dissolved. Frostwyrms and ghouls shrieked and roared in the distance. It was cold.

He didn't need to open his eyes to know impact was approaching. He squeezed them tightly shut. "Sorry, Vaiden..."

Ketala looked up at him at the sound of her child's name.

The necropolis hit the mountain side and crumbled apart. One strike, two, another, and then it was just endless stones and debris, tumbling disconnected down the mountainside, burying into the snow all around Icecrown. It was over. Kel'thuzad and Naxxramas had fallen.

Ras sat down hard, staring at Naxxramas's ruins and watching as his portal fizzled away to nothing. Beside him, Tirion frowned painfully. Even the cleansed Ashbringer seemed to weep. "They didn't make it," Ras murmured. "Why? Why? They had plenty of time."

Darion shifted and turned away from the scene. "You should understand ex-lich. There are fates far worse than death." Tirion frowned and looked after the Ebon-blade knight, wanting to say something encouraging and yet knowing there was nothing to say.

"Ketala's compassion was her strength and weakness," he murmured to a shaken Ras. "And mighty as both. The things she was forced to do may have simply weighed to heavily on her conscience for her to endure. The true Ketala was far too gentle to ever do such things."

Ras shuddered, a wave of depression washing over him. Varimathras scoffed. "What about Nathanos? That explanation is lovely, but doesn't explain why _he_ didn't make it."

Tirion shook his head, not knowing. Zeliek shrugged. "He struck me as mildly suicidal," the undead paladin reflected. "And irresponsible."

Ras blinked and stared up at all three of them. His jaw dropped. "What the hell is the matter with you people?" he rasped. "Nathanos, not Ketala, brought down Naxxramas."

Tirion blinked and looked back at Ras, as did Zeliek. Varimathras couldn't have cared less.

"How can you talk about her as if her loss was great and his insignificant? Are you all blind? Isn't it obvious why he didn't come back, if it's so obvious why Ketala didn't?" He shook his head in dismay. "Nathanos wouldn't have _left_ her!"

Tirion nodded, but found it hard to believe, and Zeliek just shrugged. The only person present who believed him was Varimathras, and he couldn't begin to understand such emotional devotion.

Darion was quiet as he climbed down the mountainside, quietly thinking about the fate of the two unfortunate undead who had died that day, and contemplated his own existence at the same time. The walk was long, and although it was dangerous for him to walk alone, he needed some time to think. To think about the essence of good... and why it always seemed to bend so unwavering to evil. He wondered if Tirion were ever in the same position as Ketala, would _he_ fold to the darkness?

He was so introspective he nearly missed the fluttering of a white tendril against the snow. When he saw it his eyes widened in surprise, and he nudged it gently with a boot. It didn't seem to mind his terrible chill, and just drifted there, aimlessly.

His eyes followed the tendril to where it was splayed lazily over the vertical length of a cliff, and then up to a dark little perch.

There sat a cocky looking ranger lord with an exhausted deathknight in his arms, her eyes closed and her face pressed into his chest. "I don't suppose you have your horse on you?" the forsaken questioned. "I think she may require medical attention. I'm pretty certain she wasn't supposed to attempt her first flying lesson right after all that..."

Darion's eyes widened. He stared for a moment and then quickly turned back the way he'd come. "I'll get Tirion," he answered hoarsely. "Wait here."

* * *

Long story short, Ketala loses her paladin powers, and her death knight powers. She will never again be pure and innocent enough to call on Paladin energies while at the same time being undead, but the majority of her soul has been saved. I intended for her to sit out the rest of Truae, in need of spiritual/mental/emotional recuperation. Here's a little excerpt of her helping Darion:

* * *

Excerpt:

Ketala was quiet, before slowly reaching out and touching the other deathknight's hand. Cursed as he was, she could bear his chilly aura without pain.

Darion lifted his white eyes to her.

"Your father was a good man," she said softly. "Even as an undead... even in slavery... A good man. I owe him what remains of my soul."

"What hope is there when good men can be made to do such things?" he asked in a dark and husky voice. "What point is there in fighting?"

"Point?" she blinked. "Darion, would your father have fought so hard against Arthas's control if there was no point?"

"The light abandoned you. You of all people should know there comes a time when the light's petty whims cannot be obeyed," he hissed. "The Lich King will use Tirion's weaknesses against him, just as he used yours. His compassion, his desire for the redemption of the fallen. The Lich King knows the rules of the Light, knows how far Tirion will go and what borders he will not breach-"

"I thought we were fighting him because he forced us to to horrible things to our loved ones," she murmured quietly. "Because he forced us to lay down the Light and take up the shadow. Darion, what's the point of fighting against him if we create the same sort of world _he_ would create? Never sacrifice your humanity for efficiency. You have very little left, and every ounce is precious."

He frowned. "You hate him because he betrayed you and your men and sent you to die against Tirion. How could you, of all people, ask Tirion to fire on his own men? How could you ask him to become the thing you hate most in the world?"

She smiled up at the Highlord, at his white eyes and pale face. "Tirion is special. Vital," she told him. "He symbolizes everything you're fighting for. You should be protecting his devotion to his men, his faith, not criticizing it. The day he loses it, you are following nothing but a second Lich King."

He stared at her, eyes wide, at this strange angle she had presented. After a long time he lifted his unoccupied hand and placed it gently over hers. "Alright," he murmured.

" 'Sides. If Tirion didn't care about redemption, we wouldn't have you. And you're a pleasant person to have. " He sneered slightly and looked away. She laughed lightly. "What now? I like you. I think you are his Taelean."

He blinked and looked back at her. "I think he sees his own son in you. Don't let him down."

He nodded weakly. "If you say so."

* * *

And that's all I have! If I find any more tidbits, I'll post them online. I know it's not a conclusion to the story, and leaves a lot of things unsatisfied. Still, it wraps up some of the major loose ends, and it encompasses everything I'd finished when I gave up on writing fanfiction. I feel that delivering it to you is as suitable an epilogue as any. Perhaps one day I'll squeeze some fanfiction out again. Till then, happy gaming!


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